


if i look back i am lost

by Magali_Dragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Jon Snow, Boatbaby (Game of Thrones), Character Death, Character Study, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Don't Like Don't Read, Episode Fix-it, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gendrya in chapter 7 if that’s not your thing then bye, GrandDadvos, Guilt, Jon Snow Gets Revenge, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon snow is stuck in the anger phase of grief, King Jon Snow, Mental Breakdown, POV Davos Seaworth, POV Jon Snow, Post-Canon Fix-It, Resentment, Sad with a Happy Ending, So much angst, Sorry Dany Dies But Does She Really, Stick to the end of fic before you throw shit at me, Targaryen Babies, Targaryen Madness, Targlings (ASoIaF), Weird Plot Shit, dadvos, in which Jon Snow goes full Targaryen and gets revenge, jon snow likes to burn shit to the ground too, season 8 episode 5 fixit fic, so much revenge, testing my limits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-13 16:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 75,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20585624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin.  Jon Snow is both mad and great and when he loses the one thing he did not realize he wanted, he finds out for himself.Post season 8/episode 4/beginning episode 5 canon divergence-- in which certain plotlines should have been explored to make more sense.Warning:  major character death (?) and some bloody/violent scenes-- read the tags before you scream at me in comments.**COMPLETE**





	1. betrayals, blood, and burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tragedy befalls Dragonstone, turning Jon Snow's coin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This plot bunny bothered me so much today that I basically wrote the entire thing on my phone while on the train to/from work. I wrote 9000 words-ish in a couple hours and had to get it out. I wanted to see what would happen if we actually got a full blown dark!Jon/Targ!Jon and boatbaby as well. Plus, I HATED how supersonic fast everyone seemed to be in season 8, so this does include time fixes (or what I think would be time fixes judging from how large Westeros seems to be).

_Three Months After the Battle for the Dawn _

The ship had not traveled as fast as it had to get from Dragonstone to White Harbor, to his displeasure. He had stood at the bow of the ship, begging each day for good winds to take them as fast as possible through the stormy waves, rocking the ship violently for hours on end. Winter was upon the continent and they had endured several harsh storms, almost losing a few ships in the process. 

A raven arrived from Dragonstone, from Varys to be specific, telling of the ambush by Euron’s fleet. The death of Rhaegal and of Missandei. The failed peace talks and hostage negotiation. They had sailed fast and hard to get there to prepare for the final battle against Cersei, but it had been in vain. He had known something had happened, preparing for the journey to White Harbor and doubled over in pain. It felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, something snapping in his mind and he’d been bowled over with his sight going black. 

He hadn’t known what to make of it, but when he got the raven, he knew. It had been the severing of his connection to Rhaegal. The feisty green dragon had plummeted to the seas, buried forever in a watery grave just beyond the only home his mother had ever known. Jon felt numb at the knowledge. Two of her children were gone. She’d watched them both die, shot from the sky that should have been their domain. Then she’d watched her best friend, the sweet woman he hadn’t had a chance to truly get to know, but who she spoke of with great affection…he felt sick at knowing that that was what she’d seen. 

They were gone. Jorah, her best friend, and two of her sons. Him. 

He tried not to think of it. Tried not to consider him part of those deaths. They were over, whatever they had had…as glorious and wonderful as it had been and as much as he yearned to return to those days where they refused to leave her rooms on the ship, but they couldn’t. They couldn’t because she was his aunt and he was her nephew and he had told his sisters about his heritage and he would be a threat to her rule. 

The dinghy made its way through the choppy water slowly and he could see the bald Master of Whisperers waiting on the shore. He did not like Varys. Did not trust him or want him anywhere near her, but she claimed to trust him and accept his council. Jon jumped from the boat and trudged through the surf to him, feeling the chill begin to set in as he exited the water. “How is she?” he demanded. 

Varys huddled his hands in his sleeves for warmth as they walked up the beach to the massive stone castle. “She hasn’t seen anyone since we arrived. She hasn’t left her chambers. Hasn’t accepted any food.” 

The thought turned his stomach. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

“You’re worried for her.” The Spider seemed surprised. He almost chuckled. “I admire your empathy.” 

“Aren’t you worried for her?”

“I’m worried for all of us.” He paused. “They say every time a Targaryen is born the gods toss a coin and the world holds is breath.”

Somewhere he had heard that phrase before and couldn’t remember. It meant nothing to him. “Not much for riddles where I’m from.”

“We both know what she is about to do.” Do we, Jon wondered, although he did know. She was going to rain fire and blood down upon Cersei Lannister and bury King’s Landing in ash. He couldn’t say he blamed her. He didn’t like it, but it was war and Cersei had beaten her at every turn. 

Either way it didn’t matter what he thought. He stopped, turning to face Varys. He couldn’t read the Spider and nor did he really want to at that moment. He wanted to see her and see how she was doing. “That is not our decision to make. She is our queen.”

That did not stop the Spider. “Men decide where power resides, whether or not they know it.”

A fire erupted somewhere in his belly but he tamped it down. He had had enough. “What do you want?”

Varys’s voice went hushed. “All I have ever wanted is the right ruler on the Iron Throne.” A sick feeling began to spiral out through him. He could hear her words. The warning and the fear. Could see his siblings staring at him and hear them swearing beneath the heart tree. No, he thought. No, no, no. “I still don’t know how her coin has landed.” No, Jon screamed inwardly. “But I’m quite certain about yours.”

There it was. Varys knew. If Varys knew, Tyrion knew. If Tyrion knew…gods. He clenched his jaw, furrowed his brow, and looked to the ship. He knew. Arya would never have broken an oath, but Sansa…Sansa would want to see her gone and him on the Iron Throne. He turned back to Varys. “I don’t want it.” It was futile. No one seemed to listen to him when he said that. He didn’t want to be King in the North either, but they gave him that title. For once he wanted to make his own choices. “I never have.”

Varys ignored him. “I’ve known more kings and queens than any man living. I know what they say to crowds and see what they do in the shadows. I have furthered their designs, however horrible but what I tell you now is true. You will rule wisely and well while she—“ 

He had heard enough. Voice rough and warning, he stared straight into Varys’s cold eyes. “She is my queen.” Ending the conversation, he turned away and began to walk up the beach to the path that would take him to the castle. The entire way he felt like someone was watching him. They probably were. It was probably Tyrion. He wasn’t sure what to make it anything anymore. 

The first thing he did when he got to the chambers where he stayed on Dragonstone was splash cold water on his face and then change his boots from the wet ones he’d walked up in. He needed to think before he went to see her. He didn’t want her to be alone though. That was the worst thing for her. He should know. He’d been somewhat alone when he had realized he’d been betrayed by his brothers. Stabbed and killed. He closed his eyes. Gods.

He made a slow trek to the room of the Painted Table, where he knew she would likely be. She told him on the boat that she liked the room because of its history and what it meant for her family. It was where Aegon the Conqueror plotted and planned his campaign to unite the kingdoms. The open wall to the sea spoke to her and reminded her of living in Essos for most of her life and allowed her the ability to be free. To know that it was hers, all hers. 

He knocked and entered, finding her leaning against one of the columns. It had been near three months since he’d seen her, since they had set out from Winterfell with two dragons, her Unsullied, and what remained of her Dothraki. Three months since he’d made it to White Harbor and sent the northern armies on their way. The northern armies had crossed the Trident long before he had arrived and he knew they were camped beyond the walls of King’s Landing, waiting for the signal. They were tired of fighting but they would fight.

He could not believe the woman standing before him was the one he had seen leaving Winterfell, victorious against the Army of the Dead and keen on finally taking what was hers. This woman was sad and sickly, her skin a waxy gray color and her eyes rimmed in red and black bruises. The lustrous silver hair often twisted and turned in so many complex braids he could barely follow them was hanging dull and tangled to her back, a few simple braids woven through. 

Missandei used to braid her hair, he thought, his heart clenching for the loss of that poor woman. He took a step into the room. “Your Grace,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if he could call her Dany any longer. 

“You betrayed me.”

He closed his eyes. That was how she saw it. Of course she saw it as a betrayal. He nodded. “Aye,” he whispered. He deserved whatever punishment she would set forth on him. He had betrayed his queen, told his siblings and one of them betrayed him. He looked at the stone floor, a layer of dust over it. “They told me you have been unwell. You haven’t seen anyone.”

“I think someone is poisoning me.” She turned to look at him and he could barely see her eyes in the darkness, but could see a slight shine in them. She tugged the massive shawl, almost a fur, around her body. He frowned; she ran hot and normally did not go for such things. She peered over at him and took a step out of the shadows and into the warm glow from the fire in the hearth. 

Varys no doubt, he thought, although maybe that was too much. Varys wouldn’t murder her to get him on the throne, would he? Jon did not want to think of it. He took a step towards her, but her hand shot out, stilling his movement. He stopped. He would not make a move without her, he thought, trying to gauge what was happening. This was his fault, he thought. He should not have told Sansa. She was right. He would never be able to forgive himself. 

She kept her hand held out and her dull gaze looked over to him. There was a hatred burning there he had never seen before. He felt sick. She hated him. She was telling him she loved him, kissing him, and he was pushing her away. Now she could barely stand to look at him. “Your Grace,” he whispered, taking another step. 

An ugly laugh left her twisted lips. She glared at him with that steel stare. “Your Grace?” she mocked. She took another step. “I thought I was Dany to you. I seem to remember how you would say my name.” Another step towards him and she lifted her head up, breathing, her voice raspy. “Oh Dany, remember how you would say it when your cock was inside of me?” She snorted. He closed his eyes tight, not wanting to think of it. She was angry with him. She had every right to be. “Speaking of your cock in me,” she said, her head angling to look at him. He frowned. What was that supposed to mean? She squinted. “I have something to share with you that you are going to be disgusted by and to be frank, I don’t care.”

What was she talking about? “What…” he trailed off, but she lifted her finger again and he closed his mouth. 

She licked her lips and her eyes continued to stare into his. So cold and angry. “You remember how I said it was fine if you came inside of me, because I was barren and empty and would never have children?” She laughed and his stomach flipped, a tingling feeling of horror beginning to creep up his spine. The shawl around her slipped from her shoulders and she let it drop to a puddle at her feet. 

Without the shawl he could see the coat she wore, unbuttoned below her breasts and the sides of it flaring out to reveal a protruding stomach. He felt something lurch in his throat. Oh gods. His mouth fell open and he wasn’t sure what was happening, but he found himself on his knees in front of her and her fingers tangling into his hair. He screwed his eyes shut and his arms around her waist, a dry sob heaving from his chest. 

Her nails dug into his scalp, angry and stilling his movement as he made to tilt his head up. “You hate it,” she whispered. She kept him on his knees and moved her hands to his shoulders. She spit out. “You want it dead.”

The idea of his child…not wanting his child… “Gods no,” he whispered. He wrenched his head up, fighting her attempts to keep him from looking at her. He was on his knees, begging her. “Please Dany…I don’t…no…not at all.”

“You don’t want me,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. Her voice hollow. Her gaze staring out at something in the shadows. “I have no love here. Only fear.”

“I love you.” It wasn’t how he wanted to say it to her. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to say it to her, but he did. He pushed to his feet and tried to take her face into his hands, but she turned her head and he only brushed her cheek. “Dany, I love you. You are my queen.” 

“Is that all I am to you?” She pushed her face towards his and her hand rose up to grip at the back of his neck. The way her lips brushed his almost broke him, but he closed his eyes and did not move. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She tried again and he remained still. She dropped to her feet and nodded. “Then let it be fear.” She turned away and looked into the fire. “I wish things could go back to how they were. Where this child would have you happy and loving it. Not viewing it as an abomination.”

“No child could be an abomination,” he whispered. 

She snorted again. “You’re disgusted by it. I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Dany…”

“No!” she screamed. She grabbed a glass from the table and flung it into the fire, where it cracked and almost exploded from the heat. She glared at him and picked up her shawl, wrapping it around her again. “Get out.”

He couldn’t just leave her here. How was she eating or drinking if she thought she was being poisoned? He tried to reach for her, but she made a sound that resembled her dragon’s growl and he backed away. He was disgusted, but not in her. Not in their child. In himself. He turned away and exited the room, leaving her as she had requested. He closed the door and came face to face with Tyrion. 

The little man looked up at him, his face a mask. Jon waited a beat. “You know,” he whispered. He continued before Tyrion could open his mouth. “You told Varys and Sansa told you.”

The man nodded. “Yes.”

“That was not her secret to share. Not yours to share.” He felt rage start to bubble inside of him. Rage at this entire situation. Rage at Ned for keeping it secret. Rage at Rhaegar and Lyanna for running off together and starting this whole thing. Rage at his sister and Tyrion and Varys and all the machinations everyone had to play with each other. He tried to keep his voice even but the volume rose slightly with each word. “You should have told her. Not gone running to Varys. You never should have continued with it.”

It was like he said nothing. For the second time, one of the so-called advisors ignored him and spoke what they felt. “She is losing her grip, Jon. Too much death in so short a time. I thought she would fly straight to King’s Landing and burn it to the ground, but she’s waited. She will not see anyone but Grey Worm and a couple of her Dothraki. Not even me for longer than a moment or so.”

It was because she hadn’t told him, he realized, cocking his head slightly. He knit his brows together, wondering. He lifted his chin slightly. “She isn’t seeing anyone. See to it she gets food. Have only an Unsullied put it together and bring it. Leave her be.”

“And King’s Landing?”

“When she commands it.” He left Tyrion to wonder about that and went to his chambers. He shut the door with a click and closed his eyes, falling back against it. A child. Seven hells there was a child. A tiny voice in his mind said it was a bastard. He’d fulfilled his greatest fear. Bringing a bastard into the world. Bastard on a queen, of all things. But you’re also a king, the same voice said. She’s your aunt, another said. Starks have married within the family, one of the other voices tittered. They all had different sounds and he opened his eyes and wondered for a moment if he was actually going mad himself. 

You are a Targaryen, one of the voice snickered. It would be just like your family. 

There was a scroll on the desk in the corner of his rooms that wasn’t there earlier. It must have just arrived. He strode towards it and tore the seal with Winterfell’s wolf. He hoped it was from Arya or maybe Sam or Bran, but he knew it wasn’t. He stared momentarily at Sansa’s neat script writing. He had to read it several times. It was simply one line across the parchment. 

_You are the king the North needs. The king the Seven Kingdoms needs. _

No apology for breaking a sacred oath. He could hear her voice, the coldness in it and the same know-it-all attitude she had had since she was a child, clinging to Catelyn’s skirts and calling him a bastard. She had apologized to him at Castle Black for being an ass to him when he was a child, but did she mean it? It seemed nothing he ever wanted mattered to anyone. 

He threw the scroll in the fire. He leaned on the stone above the hearth and stared into the flames. They danced and crackled merrily, but he felt nothing but a gnawing pain and anguish. And rage. So much rage. He closed his eyes, his fists balling on the stone. He waited a second and then let out a scream that came from somewhere deep inside of him. Somewhere dark and angry. He punched at the wall, not feeling when he heard a crack somewhere in his hand. He grabbed one of the chairs and flung it against the wall, where it splintered and rained shards of wood onto the floor. 

Then the desk and the door from the armoire, torn clean off its hinges and to the fire. He fell to his knees and screamed and screamed, not caring who heard him. 

And when the rage finally died, he fell onto the floor in a ball and cried.

~/~/~/~/~/

Weeks passed and he couldn’t get her to see him. 

Couldn’t look at Varys or Tyrion. Couldn’t respond to Sansa’s ravens, which came every couple of days, asking when the northern armies would advance into King’s Landing. He went out to the beaches and ignored Davos, who had journeyed from Storm’s End, wondering why they were holding on their attack plans. He could not even tell Davos. 

He tried to get in to see her, but the Dothraki and Unsullied refused. 

Sometimes he would go to the caves where they mined the dragonglass and he would scream so loud and hard he could not speak for hours afterward. He had not answered anyone when his hands were bloodied and bruised and swollen. Davos seemed to know and said nothing. 

It wasn’t until he had been at the rock for all of a month when Grey Worm found him brooding on one of the ramparts, staring straight at the mainland and wondering what he should do with the armies next. He looked sideways at her loyal commander. “Come,” Grey Worm ordered, his spear tilted slightly towards him. 

It was not a request, so he followed the Unsullied leader to the castle and into the room of the Painted Table. She sat at the fire again, still bundled in her shawls and furs. He was distressed at how thin her face looked, the sallowness in her skin. She said something to Grey Worm in Valyrian. The commander nodded and turned, but not with one final glare. 

He stepped towards her. She gestured for him to sit in a chair near her. He did so and waited. She pulled on the shawls and revealed her belly to him. It was larger than it had been. He looked at it and then to her again. She was studying him, but he could not read her expression. “How…how far do you believe you are?” he whispered.

“Probably the boat,” she answered. He calculated. That was about seven months now, he judged. Had it been that long? She folded her hands beneath her belly. “I know Tyrion and Varys wonder what I am doing all this time. To be honest with you I do not know, but I do not plan to have them know until there is nothing they can do about it.” She stared at him for another moment. “I want you to know that when this child is born, I will attack King’s Landing and I will what is mine. What is my child’s.”

_My_ child. Not _our_ child. 

He nodded. “I understand.”

“You will have no role in this child’s life,” she continued. He closed his eyes hard at that but she said nothing. “I do not acknowledge bastardy. It is a concept that has always been a mystery to me and there is no reason for my child to suffer when its father is a coward and a traitor to its mother’s love.” 

There was no reason to fight her anymore. He nodded. “I understand.”

“I loved you more than anyone.” He lifted his head and his heart broke, seeing her tears. They trickled down her cheeks like tiny streams, glowing in the firelight. “I loved you Jon Snow, so much. I would have married you if you asked me, I would have done everything I could to give you some semblance of a family even if I could not bear children for you.” She smoothed her hand over her belly as she spoke. “But then you told me about your true birth and I still loved you…you were the one who changed it, not me. Did you know Aegon ruled with his sisters? Did you know Jaeherys ruled with his? They were kings and queens in their own right and we could have done that. I don’t know why you think it would have been anything else…but you did.”

“I didn’t want to be king,” he whispered.

“And would it have mattered then if you just stayed silent? At least until everything was over? You could have told Sansa later but you didn’t. You told her and I told you she wouldn’t keep it quiet.” She glared at him again. Her fingers dug into her stomach and her knuckles turned white. He saw a muscle tick in her jaw and the tendons on her neck begin to cord. “All my life I thought I was nothing. A child in a man’s world. The throne was not mine, it was my brother’s and I was but a pawn to help him achieve it. Until I realized that it was mine. It was always meant to be mine. I birthed dragons and I survived fire. I led the Dothraki and the Unsullied follow me. I broke chains and ruled cities.” She shook her head again, whispering. “But I don’t have a cock, so Westeros does not want me.”

He shook his head hard. “That isn’t what it is about.” 

“You’re a naïve little fool Jon Snow.” She looked into the fire and smirked. “I lost everything that mattered to me. You came here and you asked for help and said I would rule over the dead if I did not go to Winterfell to stop the Long Night.” She turned her head again and the hatred she put on him almost curled his toes. He felt so much shame from her look. “I loved you and I followed you and I lost everything. I lost my love, my children, and now I probably will lose my throne.”

Dany no, he silently begged, dropping to his knees before her. He took her hands, frowning at how cold they were, and squeezed them tight. He peered up at her and begged. “I needed to think, I needed time. I love you Daenerys. I love you and I want to be with you.” I don’t even care anymore, he thought. I don’t care about the relation or anything. I want you and just you. I want our baby he wanted to scream.

She flung his hands back at him and stood, balling her fists at her side. “It doesn’t matter!” she screamed. “I told you that! I told you it doesn’t matter what you want and you did not listen to me. You told them anyway.” She spun away from him and went to a bottle of wine that had been sitting on one of the tables against the wall, taking a pull from it. She wiped the back of her hand over her lips and then had another drink. She set it down and turned back around. Tears fell down her face and she sobbed, her shoulders hunching as she cradled her belly. “This was not how I wanted things or how I thought they would ever go, which was my mistake.” She gripped her stomach tight. “I have this child. That is all I ever wanted and when I give birth I will go and take the kingdoms.”

“And what will they say then?” he finally asked. He challenged her, if she was going to be so stubborn, then he could be stubborn too. “When you are queen and you have a child and no husband or father present? What will they say then?”

“What is the opinion of sheep to a dragon?” He frowned. Another riddle. She smiled, her eyes glassy and vacant. “Ash.” She laughed, slightly manic. “I told you Jon, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters to me anymore. You have the cock and that’s why Varys wants you instead of me. It is why Tyrion wants you instead of me. Fuck, it is why your sister wanted you instead of me! She can manipulate you. She thinks I’m the one manipulating you because she only can see people who want power and will do anything for it.” She snorted. “Love means nothing to her anymore.”

All he could do was try to reach for her, but she swatted his hand away. “Leave me be,” she ordered. She turned back around, waving her hand idly towards the door. “I can’t deal with your self loathing right now. Go complain to a tree or someone who gives a shit. I’m tired.”

Jon wanted to shake her. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake sense into her and then kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. He fought the urge to do something more than nod and turn away, which he did anyways. He walked out of the room and went to his, which he had not allowed anyone to enter. He picked up a piece of the chair he’d broken weeks before and hurled it against the wall, watching it shatter. He went to the open window and stared out at the sea. Drogon screeched and flew off in the distance. 

He turned back around and took the latest scroll from Sansa, throwing it to the fire, before he slumped down against the wall and closed his eyes. 

~/~/~/~/~/

More weeks passed. 

She had to be almost done with her pregnancy, he thought, but said nothing when he tried to visit with her in her chambers. Every time she left, which was rarely, she bundled in heavy clothing and shawls. He tried to determine if Tyrion or Varys knew. They fluttered about him like birds, trying to get him to tell them what he had seen her in rooms or convince him that it was time for him to step forth. 

Varys had the gall to show him scrolls from some of the families. “They were loyal to your father, they will follow you and support your claim,” he said. 

“My father was Eddard Stark,” he only ever replied and threw the scrolls to the fire. 

The riddle she’d posited to him echoed him with every single step he took through the castle. _What is the opinion of sheep to a dragon? Ash._

Sometimes he went out to the beach and wished for Drogon to burn him. Everything made sense to him, knowing what he knew now. Why Drogon allowed him to touch him the first time he was on Dragonstone. Why Rhaegal let him ride. The connection in his mind with the green dragon. The way he could sense their emotions and feelings. Command him in battle. Everything made sense now. 

Seven hells, maybe that was why she could get with child. He was a Targaryen. Perhaps this was just part of it. She could only have a child with one of her blood. 

He avoided Davos as much as possible, knowing that if he went to the old sea captain he would collapse. It was exhausting. Everything fatigued him and he knew that soon he would need to make a decision. She was his queen and she had said nothing about the armies returning to the North, but soon they would need to do something. Either attack or leave, but they could not stay camped in the Crownlands forever. 

There was a child to think about, but Jon could not even really think about the child. She would not let him see her. Sometimes he saw Dothraki women coming and going from her chambers. He hoped they were taking good care of her. He always watched the Unsullied in the kitchens, bringing her food that had not been touched. He thought of Varys, still lurking about and trying to ascertain what was happening behind the closed doors. 

And then it happened.

Jon was walking to the room of the Painted Table, in one of his futile attempts to try to see her, when the doors burst open and some of her bloodriders rushed out of the room, pushing him aside. He pressed to the wall, staring in horror as Grey Worm carried her out and down the hall, away from the council room and to her chambers at the end of the corridor. “What is going on?” he demanded, pushing at one of the Dothraki who tried to stop him. He might not be armed, but he would kill if one of them stopped him. 

There were some screaming in Valyrian and Dothraki and he could not follow what was happening. Tyrion and Varys appeared, almost out of nowhere, their faces ashen. Tyrion attempted to run after them, screaming. “She is with child!?” 

That was right, they didn’t know, or if they did, they hadn’t said. “Yes!” he screamed back and pushed at Tyrion, not caring if he knocked him over. “Yes she’s with child and something is wrong!”

He pushed into the room, watching in horror as the Dothraki women pushed up her skirts and ripped at her small clothes. “Oh gods,” Tyrion whispered from beside him. Blood was pumping out of her and onto the bed. Her skin had gone gray and her eyes rolled back into her head. Blood came from her nose and trickled down the corner of her mouth. The dwarf looked up at him, petrified. “She’s dying.”

No she isn’t, no she isn’t, Jon thought, repeating it in his head like a mantra. He beat and kicked at the Dothraki that tried to stop him, falling against her on the bed and cradling her lolling head into his arms. “Dany, Dany please, do you hear me?” He patted at her cheek and the Dothraki women clucked about, tearing up linens and bringing big bowls of water forth. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Varys, the normally unflappable Spider looking terrified. He turned to look at him, meeting his gaze, which the Spider immediately averted. “What did you do?” he roared. 

“I didn’t know,” the Spider whispered.

That was all Jon needed. He let out a scream. It came from somewhere, he didn’t know where, and he saw nothing but blackness. He felt people grab him, arms tight on his and he fell backwards, continuing to scream. He somehow came back to himself and yelled in continued fear and horror as the blood did not stop. The Dothraki midwives had removed a child from her and he could not even focus on the tiny thing, its arms and legs moving slowly and maybe he heard a tiny mewl from it. 

All he could focus on was Dany, whose eyes had fluttered open and closed, and her hand fumbling weakly at her side. He grabbed at it and drew her knuckles to his lips, kissing roughly. He stroked his free hand over her hair, damp with sweat. “Jon,” she breathed. He could hardly hear her. 

“I’m here,” he all but sobbed. He pressed his forehead against hers and squeezed her hand, the grip weak and slackening in his. “Gods Dany, please, please stay with me. Don’t leave me.”

“Blood is…” Grey Worm touched his fingertips together, frowning as he stared at the blood from Dany staining them. He looked up and met Jon’s gaze. “Strange.” 

Blood coated his hands from gripping at Dany’s and he could feel it on his lips from where he kissed her cheek. He touched at the blood coating her stomach and rubbed it between this fingers. It was strange. It was thin and slippery, more than it should have been. Bright red and so much of it…so much coming from everywhere, he thought. He lifted his fingers to his nose and sniffed. It was sweet. Sickly sweet. 

“Poison,” Grey Worm confirmed.

Poison. Someone poisoned her. Someone poisoned his child. He did not process it, focusing on Dany, trying to get her eyes, growing dimmer by the passing second, to focus on him. “Dany I love you,” he whispered, over and over again. “Please, stay with me. We have a child.”

“Baby Two.”

He saw one of the midwives lift up a second child from her womb. Twins. He laughed and kissed her hard, but she felt brittle beneath him. “Did you hear that love? We have twins.” He looked over at Tyrion, who continued to stare in shock at the scene. “What did you give her?” he screamed. He sobbed, hot tears on his face as he turned back to Dany, trying to kiss her back to him. “What did they do you Dany? Why?” 

Her eyes flickered again. The violet was dull and the light slowly dying in them. “Jon,” she mouthed. The corner of her lip seemed to pull upward. “You’re here.”

“I love you,” he said against her. He kissed her, ignoring the metallic taste of her blood on his lips. “I love you more than anything. Marry me. Be my wife…I’m so sorry Dany. I’m so sorry for everything…I didn’t realize…” He babbled like a drunk fool over her, kissing her when he could, not even breathing as he whispered pleas to her. Bargained with the gods to keep her with him. 

Her fingers loosened in his hand again. Her eyes were almost shut and her mouth moved slowly. He pressed his ear to them and hardly could hear her. “Should…stay…water…” 

A few years ago he had heard another woman say something similar as she died in his arms. She died because of him too. They should have stayed at the caves. We’ll go back there, he’d told her. She knew more than him what a lie that was. He couldn’t lie to another woman in his arms again. He closed his eyes and sobbed, rocking her to his chest. “Dany,” he said. He could not stop saying her name. 

Even when her eyes closed, the light gone, and her hand slack in his. He no longer could feel her heartbeat or feel her soft breath. Everyone turned to the window, a horrid, blood curling scream echoing through the stone. A son who lost his mother. 

And the sound that came from him was something akin to the same.

A dragon that lost his mate.

A wolf that lost their pack.

They tried to take her from him, but he couldn’t let her go. He had left her when she needed him the most. He had shunned her when she wanted him the most. He could not do so now. So he sat with her and he rocked her in his arms and he murmured to her how they would go to that waterfall and he would marry her under a hearttree and he would pledge to the gods under the stars and the moon that he would serve her for life. His queen. His lover. His wife. His Dany.

All the things that seemed to matter didn’t any longer. 

At some point, when the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, and the screams of Drogon had faded to soft cries, he released her and tucked her into the bed, brushing her hair from her face and pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll be back my love,” he promised and squeezed her hand. 

He left the room and walked down the corridors. He found Varys and Tyrion in the council chamber, both of them in front of the fire, numb and silent. Grey Worm and one of her bloodriders who had taken command after Qhono’s death, a strong and silent man he knew was called Raqho, in step behind him. At the sound of his entry, the two men looked up and their mouths fell open in horror. 

Blood was smeared on his face and his hands were stained red. It covered his tunic and no doubt was in his hair. He stared at the two men who had pledged themselves to her. They knew nothing of honor, he thought idly. He blinked and then smiled. “Your Queen has delivered twins,” he announced. Another smile. “I do not know if they will last the night.” He smiled broader and felt something inside of him snap. 

Was it his sanity? His reality? His heart? He did not care. The smile had both advisors frowning in worry. He laughed. “Your Queen is dead.” The smile immediately disappeared. His voice went hollow. He stared at them for a moment. “Seize them.”

The protests of the two men meant nothing to him. They echoed in the hall as he grabbed a torch from one of the sconces on the corridor wall and led the small party from the hall where Aegon planned his conquest and where she sought refuge to the beach, where he had said goodbye to her on more than one occasion and where he had hoped maybe one day to bring her to and make love to her on when summer had arrived. 

That would not happen. It would never happen. 

A series of Unsullied had arrived with more torches and the bloodriders gripped Varys and Tyrion, their feet barely touching the sand. He reached the water’s edge and turned. He felt the presence in the darkness behind him and was glad for it. He searched in his mind and was not sure what he was searching for, but he knew when he found it. 

He connected. It did not take long. There was no one else who had the connection now. He could feel the anger and the anguish. The memories of a little boy loving his mother. He didn’t think they could see, but they would soon enough. 

He handed the torch in his hand to Davos, who appeared at his side, concerned and confused. “What is going on Jon,” he whispered.

Jon smiled at his former Hand of the King. “You will see soon enough.” He looked at both of her advisors. He spoke calmly. He felt calmer than he had in years. “You both are here to stand trial for treason.”

“Jon, what are you doing?” Tyrion hissed.

“Silence,” he ordered. He scanned his unhinged eyes from one to the other. Varys first, he decided. “Lord Varys. You came to me when I arrived here from the North and said men chose where power resides. Well you were right. I am a man and I hold the power.” He scanned to Tyrion. “And you both have betrayed your queen.” He glanced at Varys again. “And you set to kill her.” 

Tyrion gasped and struggled at the Dothraki who had him easily held. “Kill her!? Jon, what are you talking about, no one has tried to kill…” He trailed off and stopped moving. He turned his head and looked at Varys, who was staring straight ahead. “No…Lord Varys…”

The rings on Varys’s fingers glinted in the pale moonlight and the flickering torches. Jon nodded towards them and one of the Dothraki moved, pulling them off his fingers. “I’m sure we will find proof in these,” he said. 

Varys took a deep breath and slowly released it. He glanced at Tyrion. “I am sorry, my friend.”

“It is I who am sorry,” Tyrion said quietly. He looked back at Jon. “I did not know she was with child. I am so sorry…I…I should have known and I am sorry.” 

“She did not trust either of you to know. She barely trusted me.” Jon could not focus on that right now. He had an execution to perform. He looked at Varys. “You have committed treason against your queen. You sought to kill her. You succeeded. I sentence you to die.”

Davos let out a sound of distress beside him. He leaned forward. “Jon…you don’t have Longclaw with you…”

“I don’t need it.” 

It was then they all seemed to feel the presence that lurked behind him. Tyrion began to stammer. “Jon, don’t do this. This isn’t you. You’re in grief and believe me, I understand…”

“On the contrary Lord Tyrion,” he interrupted. He smiled again. Jon felt like he was finally thinking clearly. Like he’d been in a daze for most of his life and finally understood what he was supposed to do. He glanced at Varys, who had not uttered a sound after hearing his fate. “You claimed that you were certain about what side my coin landed.” He frowned, almost thinking out loud. “The thing about coin tosses, Lord Varys…what if they never stop? What if the gods throw it in the air and it just spins forever? Greatness and madness, one over the other for eternity? What if that is what Targaryens really are?” He blinked owlishly at the Spider. “Perhaps then my coin has not landed yet. It is simply spinning.”

The Imp continued to speak, trying to stop him. He waved off the restraints on Tyrion. He did not think Tyrion had anything to do with this, but he needed to remain fearful in case he tried again. He looked at Varys again. “Do you have any last words?”

The man who claimed he had seen kings and queens come and go, had done all their dirty deeds and fulfilled all their base desires for power, and had claimed to know all and see all, like a god among men, merely dropped his chin slightly and stared straight at Jon. “I understand why you are doing this and I wish it did not have to be so.”

Very well. He felt the movement behind him and heard the slight surprise from Davos and Tyrion, while the Unsullied did not move, as was their training. He could feel Drogon’s heart beat behind him, slow and steady, and hear the fire begin to bubble in the back of the dragon’s throat. He had never said the word itself, as Rhaegal had only shot fire in battle and had done it without command. He knew it though and had heard her say it before. She’d told him so in her cabin on the ship, dragging her finger over his heart and scars and whispering random Valyrian words, because she knew he loved to hear it. 

“_Dracarys._”

~/~/~/~/~/

The cloth was cool in his hands as he wrung it out in the basin beside the table. He leaned over her still face and carefully wiped at the blood from her nose. He dragged the edge of the cloth over and down, erasing the ugly stains from her porcelain skin. It was now as white as the moon in snowfall, he thought. He dipped the cloth back in the water and carefully moved it over her slim neck. 

The basin ran almost black by the time he was done and he’d gone through several sheets of linen cleaning her up. She was lying so still she might have been sleeping, he thought, stroking his fingers over her silver hair, which he’d brushed out and braided, resting it over her shoulder. He had found a pretty red silk dress in her trunks and dressed her in it. He placed a black cloak around her and found an old silver three-headed dragon brooch, threading it through the collar and attaching it to her shoulder. 

There was a pyre already set on the beach. He would burn her, the way they did in the North, but only recently to keep people from returning. He was somewhat grateful there was not a red priestess in residence like when he had died, he was not sure he could bear it if they tried and it did not work. Targaryens burned in death, he remembered, from Maester Luwin’s stories. 

Daenerys Targaryen was the Unburnt, though. He wondered if she would burn in death. 

He heard the door open behind him as he lightly brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Yes,” he whispered, wondering who it was. 

“Son…I am so sorry.”

Davos, he thought idly, knowing that Davos liked to refer to him as ‘son.’ I have no father, he thought. My father died to a hammer to the chest on the Trident. My father died on the steps of the Sept of Baelor from a knife to the neck. The first woman I ever loved I betrayed and died in my arms. The last woman I will ever love did the same. 

Maybe I am the cursed one, he thought, pressing his hand over her somewhat flat belly. He had not thought to ask about the twins. He was not sure he could bear hearing more bad news. He would verify their health when he finished putting their mother to rest. Davos spoke again, undeterred by the silence. “I came to tell you that you have a son and a daughter. They are very small but have good cries. I don’t speak Dothraki but from what I could tell…if they survive the night, they may have a chance. They’re fighters.”

Of course they are fighters. Their mother is a dragon, he thought. He nodded idly and kept stroking her hair. He did this when she was sleeping. She would wake up to it and tell him how nice it felt. He smiled softly. “Maybe I will see you one day,” he whispered. He knew he wouldn’t. There was nothing. Just blackness. He knew more than anyone, for he had died and seen it. 

That was probably what distressed him the most. She deserved to be with her family and her sons. She deserved to be in a beautiful place with waterfalls and stars and moonlight. Instead she was in darkness. He closed his eyes against tears. He would not cry. She would not want it. He leaned down and brushed his warm lips to her cold ones. “I love you,” he breathed. 

Davos stepped aside as he carefully placed one arm under her knees and another around her shoulders. Her head rested gently on his shoulder. He carried her out of the chambers and down through the castle. All of her bloodriders and her Unsullied lined the steps. They had followed her from when she was just a girl. They would follow her to her death. He heard Davos in step behind him. Knew Tyrion was not far away. 

He brought her to the pyre and rested her gently on the platform. My Dany, he thought. He wanted to take everything back. He would live with the regret for the rest of his life. He would die with it in his heart. We should have never left the waterfall, he thought, giving her one more kiss. 

Grey Worm approached, handing him the torch. He did not have anything to say, because everyone here already knew how great she was. He only wished the rest of the world could understand what they had lost. Jon stepped towards the pyre, moving to light it, when he paused, Drogon screeching in mourning as he swooped down towards them. 

“Drogon,” he whispered, but the dragon did not listen and simply beat his wings, churning up sand and wiping out the torches. The moonlight was the only light and Jon watched in fascination as her son gently scooped her into his talons, her body bowing like a string and her arms falling out to her sides. Drogon cried again and took to the skies. 

Jon stared at the great shadow, until it was nothing. He continued to stare, his mind blank. Davos stood next to him. “Where did he take her?” he whispered.

Essos…maybe. Valyria…who knew. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied. Her son would see to it that she was rested properly. 

A heavy hand with shortened fingers dropped to his shoulder. “You need to go see your children, Jon.”

He shook his head, still staring into the black night. “No.” He turned around and began to walk back towards the castle, a plan forming in his mind. “No I need to get her kingdom back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **runs and hides**
> 
> This will only be a few chapters long, FYI
> 
> Next time: Jon speaks with a captured Jaime Lannister about the Mad King; Tyrion and Davos have a conversation about the King in the North (or is he King of the Seven Kingdoms?) ; the dragon descends on King’s Landing and a girl strikes a name from a list.


	2. the human face is..nothing more nor less than a mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon takes back what was Dany's; a girl kills a queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, blown away by all the comments on the first chapter, I hope this fic can live up to what I did in the first chapter at least. I SUCK at writing 'battle scenes' so apologies for this one. 
> 
> Back to regularly scheduled darkness and despair in the next one (Jon has a Hamlet moment in the throne room, which was fun to write). FYI— things get worse before they get better for Jonno, but he will get better. Kind of.
> 
> Also, really could not be bothered to include Euron in this fic, so just assume he died a painful death off the page.

The sound of an infant’s cries echoed in the cold, dark hallway. Davos had been on his way to visit with the Hand…well…whatever Tyrion was these days. He stopped outside of one of the rooms, peering through the open door and to the sight before him. The King in the North was smiling and his dark eyes sparkling in the bright morning, the sunlight shining off the silver cap of hair on the infant’s head, which was cradled in his wide palm as he cooed to the child. 

He watched as the King hummed to the infant and swayed back and forth, hearing the babe’s mewling fade away as his father comforted him. He knew the little boy had silver hair like his mother. The little girl already had a cap of black curls. They did not have names yet, or if they did, Davos was not privy. No one had been allowed in to look after the children save for their Dothraki wet nurse and their Unsullied guards. 

The King had been shut away for the past week since the death of the Queen. Davos had tried to speak with him, but each time he attempted to reach out to the man he had thought of as a son, he had been rebuffed, Jon Snow withdrawing deeper into himself. The boy had quite a talent for brooding and it seemed all he was doing was honing that talent. 

Davos knocked on the door, remaining still in the archway as the King whipped his head over, staring at him with those cool gray eyes. They once had seemed warm, at least to Davos, and sometimes, if you were lucky, they had filled with laughter. It seemed since the Queen’s death they had remained shuttered. “Your Grace,” he acknowledged, bowing his head slightly. 

“Davos,” Jon greeted. He gestured for him to enter with his free hand, his other wrapped tight around the bundle.

It had been over a week, yet he was glad to see that Jon had decided to finally see the children. He suspected he had stayed away out of self-preservation. If something happened to them so soon after losing their mother, he feared what would become of the world. They were growing though, strong appetites, he had heard, and good cries. He hoped the children would bring some of the light back to the young man. “I am pleased to see you are visiting with them, Your Grace.” Davos remembered when his children were young. There was nothing quite like it, holding them in your palms and knowing they were yours. 

The King barely smiled, setting the babe into the cradle. He handled them well. He touched the child’s head, whispering. “This is the boy. My son.” He straightened and gestured to the baby sleeping soundly beside the boy. “This is my daughter.” He lightly touched her dark head. 

“You hold them like a seasoned father.”

“I’ve never held a baby before,” he whispered. He smirked. “The Dothraki showed me….” The eyes went dark, practically black, and the torture on his face evident. “Their mother should be with them.”

Davos closed his eyes briefly, allowing him a moment to collect his thoughts. He finally looked up, glanced at Jon. He wished it did not have to be like this. “Have you chosen names for them, Your Grace?”

“Hmm…yes.” The King did not say anything. Continued to brush his fingers over the children’s tiny hands. He seemed in another world. Davos hoped it was nice there, wherever he was. He blinked, returning to the room. “I can’t remember, I’m sorry…do you have children?”

“Yes. I have…had…seven sons.” He thought of his one son, dead on the Blackwater. The hollow emptiness in his heart where his son should have been. He closed his eyes briefly. “My son was killed in Stannis’s siege on King’s Landing. Burned by wildfire.”

Jon straightened. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t tell you.” He flashed a quick smile. The younger man barely smiled in return. It was something. He gestured to the twins. “May I?” There was a slight hesitation, but then the King nodded. He leaned down and tittered like an old nanny with her charge, lifting up the little girl, her eyes blinking open slightly. They were still so small, but strong, he knew. They had strong parents. He lightly patted her back. “Aren’t you a beautiful lass?”

The proud father leaned over and touched her tiny hand, escaping from the confines of her blanket. “I named her…” his voice trailed off. “I named her for her grandmothers. Her name is Lyella.”

“Lee-ella,” Davos tested, smiling at the beautiful child. It was a lovely name. He nodded to the boy. “And your son?”

A dark look crossed the King’s face. Davos did not know what that meant. He could never read Jon Snow. The man had a mask that no one could break or read. It came from being a bastard, Davos knew, having seen it among many in his time in the Stormlands. They almost were not allowed to have feelings about anything. It served him well as a leader, but now Davos found it to be a negative trait as he tried to figure out what was going on in the King’s mind. The man who had burned the eunuch alive on the beach, had laughed when he’d relayed the news of his beloved’s death, and had vowed to take back her kingdoms was someone else entirely. 

There was a dragon lurking behind the wolf’s eyes.

The look faded and he sank down into a chair beside the cradle. “His name is Daeron,” he whispered. 

Daeron Targaryen, the Young Dragon. Davos didn’t know much of Targaryen history until little Shireen Baratheon had taught him to read from a book about the Targaryen dynasty. Davos nodded. “That is a strong name.” It was a good name for a child born from a young dragon himself. 

Jon said nothing. He covered the child’s small body with his hand, staring down at the little face peeking from the blankets. He waited a moment and then cleared his throat. “Daenerys is the female version of Daeron.”

They all walked in fear of him. They worried he would send a dragon to burn them. Davos worried himself. He might be the blood of the dragon and have the heart of a wolf, but Jon Snow or Aegon Targaryen or whatever he decided to use…he was just a broken man who had lost the love of his life and the mother of his children. Davos placed the little girl in the cradle beside her brother. He covered Jon’s shoulder again, guiding him into the chair beside the cradle. He knelt at the king’s side and said nothing as the young man leaned towards him. Sometimes you had to help them bear the burden, het hought. The entire world was on this boy’s shoulders again. 

Jon glanced sideways. In the close contact Davos could see the shadows beneath his eyes. The bruises informing him of the lack of sleep he’d no doubt experienced. “We still have a tyrant to depose,” he whispered.

“For her,” Davos said.

“Yes.” He waited a moment and looked at his hands. They were still bruised and scraped from whatever he had been doing the last few months to release the aggression and pain. Davos suspected it had something to do with the destroyed furniture the man’s old room. “Why did you stay with me Ser Davos? Serve me after Stannis died?”

When Stannis died, he could have turned right around and gone back to his home. Gone back to his wife. He remained there, wanting to avenge little Shireen’s death. He had seen something in this man that kept him in service to at least this king. “Because you have a good heart,” he finally said. He nodded at the disbelieving look he got. “You fight for the good of your people and do not take the responsibility as their leader lightly. I have often found those that seek glory and power are the ones who are the worst leaders for the job. It is the ones who keep to the shadows, do not want the crown…well those are the ones who are good for the people.”

“And you think that’s me?” he whispered.

He nodded. “And I believed your love would have been a good queen.”

The sound that came from Jon hurt him in his heart. He knew it was risky to mention the woman, but it was true. “I fucked up,” he said, looking back over at him. His gray yes dropped to the twins. “I fucked up with her…I pushed her away. I needed time and I didn’t think.” 

“There is no time for regrets, Your Grace.” They weighed so heavy on him. He gripped his shoulder. “Your crown rests heavy on your head. It is crushing you.”

There was silence for a few moments. Davos wondered if he had overstepped. He wasn’t sure what the punishment might be. No one could tell what this man might do now. Jon turned his head suddenly and reached his hand, gripping Davos’s wrist tight. “Thank you.”

He cocked his head. “For?”

“For serving me faithfully.” The King’s grip tightened. “I trust you and I don’t trust anyone right now, but I trust you.”

The words reverberated through him. He hoped he deserved the trust. He dropped his hand to Jon’s and squeezed his wrist tight in return. “Thank you…son.”

And he wrapped his arm around the poor boy as he finally broke, much like he had when he’d watched him come back from the dead. 

~/~/~/~/~/~

“Ser Davos, do you have a moment? I would like a word.”

Davos turned on the long winding path from the main door of Dragonstone to the gate. He knew every nook and cranny of the island and castle from his time there with Stannis Baratheon, but when he was not in a hurry he preferred to walk the steps to the beach. It afforded the best view, in his opinion. And he normally had those steps to himself, but today it seemed Tyrion Lannister needed something. 

He sighed. “Yes?”

Tyrion still wore the pin on his breast signifying his position as Hand of the Queen. Davos wondered if he thought that meant he was automatically the king’s primary advisor. “I would like to talk about Jon Snow.”

His mustache twitched in irritation. “Jon Snow is the King of the Seven Kingdoms. You should refer to him as such.”

The little Lannister arched his brows. “That is why I want to talk to you. If this is how he is going to move forward, I need to know, so I can start work on…on whatever it is we need to do to get rid of my horrible sister.”

Davos did not want to speak ill to Tyrion, but for someone who claimed to hate their sister as much as him, he had an odd way of showing it. Twice now he had allowed Cersei to get away with murder, essentially, and done nothing. From his conversations with Grey Worm—the young warrior knew far more Common Tongue than he let on—it seemed Tyrion had failed miserably before as well. He glanced to the ship in the distance and thought of the Northern armies still remaining outside of King’s Landing. They were no doubt itching for a fight now. “You want to speak of the King, well…how can I help you?”

“I want to talk about his mental state.”

There it was. Davos glanced down at Tyrion. “I will tell you about his mental state.” He paused. “You woke a dragon, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion scowled. “Everyone calls him the White Wolf. He’s a Stark through and through, Ned Stark’s son in name if not in blood.”

“And your Lord Varys thought that his dragon blood would be enough to get him the throne. I did not know Rhaegar Targaryen, but Stannis Baratheon did and he never spoke ill of him. Come to think of it, Lord Tyrion, the only one who ever did speak ill of Rhaegar was the man who believed the dragon stole his betrothed.”

“Rhaegar Targaryen did not kill anyone in cold blood.”

“He executed Lord Varys, there is a difference.”

Tyrion arched a brow again. “You know as well as I do that he felt nothing when he did that. Is that the Jon Snow you met at the Wall? It certainly isn’t the one I met.”

“The one you met was a green boy who had dreams of saving the world,” Davos said. He smirked. “This one is hardened. He took a knife in the heart for his people.”

“You said that before.”

“And I am telling the truth. His people chose him and they died for him and I can guarantee you Lord Tyrion that the man I saw earlier has dragon blood coursing through his veins as well as that of a wolf.” It would make for a formidable enemy, he thought. 

“I worry for his mind, as I worried for hers.” Tyrion sighed. “He’s in a rage. People do terrible things in rage and guilt and grief.”

A rage was an understatement. “You and I both know that the rage he feels is not that of a wolf looking for its next meal. It is of a dragon.”

“Then how do we stop him?” 

Stop? Davos chuckled. He studied the dwarf, who seemed so earnest. He shook his head. “Lord Tyrion I watched him bathe the blood from her body in a way a mother bathes their child. He brushed and braided her hair. He dressed her in fine silk and velvet.” He carried the woman he loved to her funeral pyre and he watched as her dragon took her away. He shook his head. “You believed Daenerys Targaryen was stubborn and hard to handle, well he is not just a dragon like her. He is a stubborn fool from the North who faced death and was reborn.”

Tyrion squinted. “You must explain to me now. That is the third time you have said something like that.”

He did not know if Jon wanted it told, but it seemed he must tell it. “The red woman…Melisandre. She brought him back. He took seven knife wounds to the chest and one of those was clean to his heart.” He remembered the terror in Jon Snow’s eyes when he had opened that door and saw him sitting upright on the table. He’d been as scared a lamb taking its first steps. Could hardly breathe. “He executed the men who did it. Including a boy. He was done with this world, ready to move on, and then his sister appeared.”

The sister who had started so many things in motion. Davos did not know what she had endured, but he could imagine. He continued. “He gave up on his quest for peace and quiet to take back their home. He saved us from the Night King. You might think he is sitting up there, stewing in guilt and misery and needs to be saved, well of course he’s stewing in guilt and misery. He did that before and he will probably die doing it. I can assure you though that he feels more guilt than just not being there for her or for fathering bastards.” He paused. “Without him she might be alive.”

Tyrion stared at him as though he was finally seeing him for the first time. He shook his head, eyes filling with mirth. He smiled. “I should stop you more often Ser Davos.”

They both heard footsteps and turned, looking up to see Jon walking towards them. He was dressed in black; had been since Drogon took away the queen’s body. His dark hair pulled from his face to a knot at the base of his neck. He glanced at one and then the other. “Your Grace,” Davos said, breaking the awkward silence.

Jon dropped his unnerving gaze to Tyrion, who shuffled in place. The Lannister cleared his throat and lifted his head. “Your Grace…have you taken back the title of King in the North? Or is it King of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Tyrion continued, while Davos closed his eyes, hoping that he would shut his mouth when necessary or they might have another execution. “On the contrary I believe it does.”

“I believe it does not,” Jon snapped. Tyrion closed his mouth. He fisted his fingers at his sides. Davos noted that it was somewhat of a comforting mechanism. He had seen Jon do it even before he died. “I have received a raven.” His voice soft and northern burr oddly comforting. It made for a rather terrifying image. He smiled. “Your brother has been captured attempting to sneak beyond the Northern lines to King’s Landing.”

Davos looked up and Tyrion blinked. “My brother?”

“Ser Jaime Lannister. I have requested they bring him to Dragonstone.” He turned and went up a few steps. He stopped and looked back down. “You still wear your pin as Hand.”

Tyrion covered the pin with his hand. “Oh…I guess I did not realize…”

Jon walked back down and looked at it. He reached over and unpinned it, studying it. After a moment, he handed it back. Davos frowned, unsure what he was doing. It seemed so did Tyrion. He smiled and pushed it to Tyrion again. “You can keep it. For memory’s sake, but you are not the Hand of the King.” He glanced to Davos. “Ser Davos is my primary councilor. I trust him. I do not trust lions.” He went up a few more steps and then looked back down at Tyrion. 

The kill shot came then. The way wolves lunged for the throat when they had their enemy already weakened. Jon smiled again. “If she did not trust you so much, maybe she’d still be alive.”

The Lannister almost dropped the pin and his face went ashen. Davos waited for the King to depart, disappearing above the cliffs. He stepped up and lightly patted the former Hand’s shoulder. “He’s in grief, he does not know what he’s saying.”

Tyrion chuckled. “Oh Ser Davos. I think he knows exactly what he is doing.”

Well that makes at least one of us, Davos thought.

~/~/~/~/~/~

The Stark gorget he’d brought with him was tossed aside, as were the armored gauntlets with the sigil of the wolf. He had removed all pieces of clothing that contained anything related to the northern house. He had not been a Stark. He never was and to wear the armor signifying such was wrong. He ignored the black gambeson he’d brought from the Wall and chose to stick with his loose black leather tunic and black breeches. The leather laces of the tunic were loose and he tightened them, wearing mail underneath just in case. 

He shoved his boots on and grabbed for his sword belt, yanking it tight over the tunic. Longclaw was a welcome weight on his hip as he glanced at his reflection in the mirrored glass by the door. He looked like he was in the Night’s Watch again, not one bit of color on his clothing, save for the snow white head and red eyes of the wolf pommel.

I am not a Stark, he thought again, glancing at the scarf he’d pulled from one of the trunks in her room. It still smelled like her. Lavender and lemons and jasmine. All those lovely florals that reminded him of summertime. It was one of the ones she had looped through her shoulder and wound around her body in a complicated fashion. He took it and wrapped it around his neck, tucking it in the collar of the tunic. 

As he walked out of the room he picked up the silver Targaryen dragon chain that she had also worn often, looping it around his wrist and tucking it beneath his black gauntlets. It was just there for him. No one else had to know. He left the room and went down to the dungeons of Dragonstone. They were dreary and wet, the air humid from the waves that rushed in and lapped over the floor, washing up and over the bottoms of the cells. 

No doubt anyone kept here long enough would die of fever and chill, which was probably the point, Jon thought. He walked with Grey Worm behind him, the Unsullied having silently fallen into step behind him as he left the castle. He had not spoken much with the Unsullied commander, but he knew they had similar goals. He stopped before one of the cells and took the keys from the Dothraki guard with him, placing a key into the lock and leaning forward through the bars before he turned it open. “Not much of a lion right now, are you Ser Jaime?”

The Kingslayer, who had not gone by the name in some time, looked up from where he’d been rubbing his good hand over the golden one. He was tired and dirty and his normally golden hair was streaked with mud and rain. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked.

“No. Not yet at least.” He opened the door and gestured for him to stand. Jaime did so. He placed one hand on Longclaw. “Come with me. I want to talk to you. I have some questions.”

Jaime smirked. “And I hope I have some answers. Where is the Dragon Queen?”

Jon stopped in his tracks. He turned on his heel and stared at the lion. Jaime was not that stupid, he realized, and blinked when he realized there was no teasing, no sarcasm, and no seriousness. Jaime really didn’t know. He flashed a quick smile. “Ser Jaime, you didn’t hear, did you?” He continued before the other man could say anything. “Queen Daenerys Targaryen died.” He cocked his head, his voice soft. “Poisoned by one of her advisors.”

The lion stared at him, mouth falling open in surprise. He closed it a moment later and dropped his gaze to the ground. “I am…I am sorry. I…” he trailed off and his eyes clenched shut. A muscle fired in his jaw. “She…she looked like her mother. Rhaella.”

No one had really ever spoken of Rhaella. Jon wanted to know more from the man who whispered a long dead queen’s name when he heard of the death of her daughter. He took the stairs two at a time, hurrying up to the room of the Painted Table. He gestured for Jaime to sit and then poured them both a glass of ale. He’d made sure that they had stocked the ale over the wine, for the fruity drink was too sweet for him. “You speak of Rhaella Targaryen.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her?”

Jaime took the glass with his good hand and smirked over the top of it. “She was…she was a beautiful woman. A kind person.” He sipped the ale and made a face, setting it down on the table with a hard thud. He glanced over across the table to where Jon was standing before the fire. “You said she died. Poisoned. Who did it?”

Probably thought it was Tyrion. “Lord Varys.”

“Why would the Spider kill his queen?”

“Why would Jaime Lannister abandon his sister to fight for the living and then run away to join her again?” He smiled. The Lannisters were all such traitors. Only going where they thought they could survive the longest. Lions were nothing compared to dragons though. Even wolves could take down lions when they were focused long enough. 

The lion looked away. “Because…everything I do I do for her.” He smirked. “I fought dead men for her, not for the world.”

“And the Mad King? You killed him for her as well?” That threw off the Lannister. He seemed surprised and his mouth fell open slightly. He was clearly trying to search for an answer, so Jon gave it to him. “No, you killed Aerys because you were serving your father.” That set something off in Jaime’s eyes, so Jon kept pushing. “I heard the stories. They were sick to me when I heard them, when I thought I was a bastard, but did you know that I’m not a bastard?” He smiled briefly at the confused look. “Oh, your brother hasn’t told you yet.”

“Told me what?”

“My father was not Ned Stark.” Complete confusion flickered through Jaime’s green eyes. Of course, Jaime knew Rhaegar. Had been there at the Red Keep during Rhaegar’s time as Crown Prince. He smiled tightly. “My father was Rhaegar Targaryen. My mother was Lyanna Stark.” He cocked his head slightly, his voice quiet. “And your father allowed my half-sister and my half-brother to be murdered. You killed my grandfather. Was it because Tywin ordered it?”

“No.”

The word was so soft that he almost didn’t hear it. He frowned. “Why?”

“Because he was going to murder the entire city,” the Kingslayer whispered. He lifted his head from the goblet in his hand, his face a contorted mess of anguish, regret, and fury. He glared at him. “My father was the one who allowed the children to die. Robert Baratheon didn’t care, he hated any Targaryen blood.” He smirked suddenly. “Now it all makes sense. Ned Stark would never betray his vows. No one would know why he didn’t just allow his lover to keep the child and raise it, but…he came into the Keep with you in his arms and only the wet nurse would be allowed with you. No one else. I often wondered why the best knights of the Kingsguard left the capitol and went to Dorne to protect Lyanna Stark. I am surprised no one else questioned it.”

And I as well, but Jon did not say that. He squinted. This man had murdered Aerys in cold blood, betrayed his vows, and for what? He claimed he was going to kill everyone. He fled from his sister and told them of her betrayal, fought with them against the Night King, and now he was going back to the tyrant? He shook his head, unable to understand. “You would die for your sister,” he murmured. “You would go and fight for her after all of this…after all she had done.”

The man across from him lifted his eyes. Stared straight into him. He smiled briefly. “I love her. Everything I do, I do for her. I…I hate her sometimes. I hate myself for it.”

“She betrayed everyone. She killed people who did nothing but love their queen.” He thought of Missandei. An innocent victim in all of this. 

“Well then I’m a monster, just like her.”

“No you aren’t.”

That had Jaime looking up, surprise once again on his face. He chuckled, gesturing to him with the gold hand. “You are…Jon Snow I did not think you could say more than a few words. The sullen Bastard of Winterfell and the honorable King in the North. I am quite surprised.”

It was his turn to smirk. “I can speak when I want to,” he whispered. He wanted to speak now. He wanted them all to know just what horrible monsters they were. The entire fucking family who seemed to believe that the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms belonged to them, just because they happened to be the richest. They were the bad people that his Dany wanted to rid the world from. The ones who thought they could snap their fingers and get whatever they wanted, even at the cost of everyone else. He would make sure they were gone. For her. 

Jaime snorted. “Well I am a monster. The things I’ve done for her…” He shrugged nonchalantly. “You of all people would be horrified.”

All of us have done horrible things. It is what makes us human. He smiled briefly. “You may have done horrible things Ser Jaime, but you claim you killed a king for a kingdom. You knew Queen Rhaella and you speak of her fondly.” He narrowed his eyes again. He wanted to know more about that. “You protected her. You knew Rhaegar and Viserys.” A look crossed Jaime’s face. It was of brief longing. He felt his lip curl slightly in understanding. He cocked his head again, whispering. “I heard Tyrion say that Queen Daenerys resembled her mother a great deal.” 

“She did,” he said over the rim of the cup. He gazed into the fire. “Rhaella was a beautiful woman. Very kind…she endured terrible things. Things I couldn’t protect her from…it wasn’t our job…we couldn’t protect her from him.”

Maybe that was also part of it. Part of why he killed Aerys. He stood up and walked over to where Grey Worm had placed the sword Jaime carried. He studied it, studied the smoky sheen on the Valyrian blade. The ostentatious lion head pommel. He shook his head, knowing just how this blade came to be. He looked over at Jaime. “My father may be Rhaegar Targaryen, but Eddard Stark was my real father. His greatsword Ice was in the Stark family since the Age of Heroes.” 

The sword clattered as he flung it down onto the table in front of Jaime, surprising the one-handed knight who almost dropped the drink. He gazed up, immediately wary. “My father always wanted a Valyrian blade,” he said, by explanation.

So Tywin stole Ice and made two smaller swords. One day I will melt them back together and my son will wield Ice. He would give his daughter Longclaw. He looked down at Jaime, knowing the other knight could try to have the blade at his throat, but if he did, the entirely of Unsullied and Dothraki would have him dead in minutes. So he bore down on him and smiled gain, his voice soft. Jon was curious to see what the fallen knight might try to do. “You may have saved the city from Aerys, but you are going now to only save your sister. Daenerys Stormborn was going to burn everyone to get back the throne, because of your sister.” He nodded to the sword. “Make your choice. If you decide to go and fight for her, you both will die.” 

A pat to the Kingslayer’s shoulder and he left the room, allowing Jaime Lannister the opportunity to think about his choice. He grabbed his cloak, the one his sister had gifted him before he left for Dragonstone. The one that looked just like his father’s. He pulled it around him and went down towards the rampart where he had often come to think and where he had also spoken with Dany. 

Before he left for the suicide mission Tyrion had sent them on, to try to convince Cersei of the threat at the Wall, he had warned her what would happen if she used the dragons in her quest to take back the Kingdoms. That was all they would know her for and they would fear her. In the end that was all she ahd to fall back on anyway. 

It was all he had now.

Cersei Lannister was beyond reason. They had tried once, twice…no more. There were no more opportunities for her to try to get out of the situation she’d created for herself and for the city. He wasn’t sure what would have happened if he had gone straight to the city and waited for Dany. If she had been the one to attack the city. He knew what he was going to do now. 

“Your Grace.”

He closed his eyes. For once he wanted some peace and the fucking Lannisters seemed determined the ruin it. “Yes?”

“I know you spoke with my brother. He is being taken back to a cell.” He paused. “You gave him his sword.”

My sword, he thought idly. Ned Stark’s sword. Robb Stark’s sword. “Do you have anything to say to me Lord Tyrion or do you just want to hear the sound of your own voice?” He glanced down at the former Hand, standing beside him. He smirked. “Because I have a battle to plan.”

Tyrion took a deep breath. “Please…do not do anything…rash.”

Rash? He wasn’t doing anything rash. He could have invaded the moment Dany died in his arms. Sent Drogon to burn everyone and everything he could reach. He squinted out at the darkness, the bare shadow of the mainland visible. “They killed the woman I love.” His throat constricted. I did not even get a chance to tell her how sorry I was…how stupid I was…I should have married her the moment we got to Winterfell. I should have pulled her into my arms and never let her go the second I saw she was pregnant. Why was I so bothered by the relation? Gods, I really know nothing, he thought. He closed his eyes briefly. “In the end it didn’t matter.”

“You have two children who need you…Jon, please.” 

“I have two children who need a mother,” he exclaimed, rounding on Tyrion. He laughed. Did this man really think theyw ere friends? Just because theyt raeled to the wall together when he was a green boy who thought the world was only black and white and there were only good and bad and nothing in between. “They don’t have her anymore.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“My fault? Of course it was my fault!” He laughed. This man was mad! “It was my fault and it was Varys’s fault.” He stared at him. “It was your fault.” He was satisfied to see the look on Tyrion’s scarred face. Good, he felt guilty. He should feel guilty. He told Varys. Varys killed her. I told Sansa. Sansa killed her too. “We are all complicit in her murder.”

He swept the heavy cloak around him and jogged up a few of the steps, stopping. He turned, glaring down at Tyrion, who looked up, cowering slightly. His decision was final. “We ride for King’s Landing tomorrow.”

The imp’s mouth fell open slightly. “Tomorrow? I…I will need to know your plan. I…I’ve been in communication with some of the forces there. The bells…”

“What bells?” he asked, impatient.

“The bells of King’s Landing. If the Lannister forces ring the bells, it means they surrender.” Tyrion paused and took a deep breath. “It means my sister gives up and should be treated as an enemy combatant.”

I will treat her like an enemy combatant, he thought. He nodded his head slightly. “Thank you.”

“What will you do tomorrow?” 

Do? That was such a simple question. He peered back down at Tyrion, growing impatient. “You believed she was becoming the Mad King. She was becoming the Mad Queen, so to speak.” He shook his head and whispered, taking a step down. “You believe our house words are stamped on us from the moment we are born?” Tyrion shook his head, about to speak, but Jon interrupted. He was speaking. No one interrupted him when he was speaking. Not anymore. “Well then mine would be fire and blood, would they not?” He smiled wider. “And you all believed I would make the better monarch.”

Tyrion shook his head, stammering. “I did not tell Varys so he could do what he did. I told him so we could try to find a solution to the problem. To keep her in power and give you what you wanted. You didn’t want the throne, I knew that, and I was trying to find an answer that satisfied everyone.”

You lie. Every word that came from the Lannister’s mouth was a lie. He smiled. “Well regardless, it is true.”

“What is true?”

“Our house words,” he whispered. He smiled again. It was all so clear to him. How had he not seen it before? “Fire and blood, that is what will befall King’s Landing tomorrow and your sister.” He grinned. “I am taking back Dany’s throne.” 

Tyrion shook his head, eyes wide and flashing white in the moonlight. “Jon…”

I don’t want to hear it. He waved his hand, dismissing the nuisance that was Tyrion Lannister. “Leave me alone, I have a battle to plan.”

~/~/~/~/~/~

The former Hand of the Queen was quite anxious and it was making Davos anxious as well. The little man kept opening and closing his fist at his side and the motion out of the corner of his eye kept giving Davos the feeling of motion sickness. Odd, because he had spent most of his life on boats, yet the silly tic was the thing that made him dizzy. He glanced down. “Will you stop fidgeting?”

The Golden Company standing at the ready across the field from them, guarding the main gate to the capitol was making him nervous. They were so calm. Calm and rested and ready to fight. Their commander stood on a white stallion out front and from the distance, relaxed and waiting for them to make the first move. The first mistake. 

“We’re going to die,” Tyrion murmured. He shook his head. “No one knows what is happening beyond the fact that the Northern armies do not have a commander, because he is gods knows where, and we are standing here before the most well-trained and heavily armed fighting force in Westeros.” He glared up. “And the king is nowhere to be found.”

Grey Worm shot them a glare. He said nothing, his spear up and at the ready. He stared ahead at the Golden Company and Davos wondered what the young man was thinking. He had his own love to avenge today. He glanced up at the sky. It was a good day. Bright sunlight and hardly any cloud cover. He dropped his gaze back to the unmoving army in front of him. The scorpions along the ramparts were pointed at them, rather than the sky. Their mistake, he thought, if Drogon made an appearance. 

Tyrion continued complaining. “We have no armies to speak of, no dragons, the Northerners will give up without Jon leading them. We have no idea where he is. This is a complete disaster. Cersei has won. We should accept it and hope she lets us die quickly.”

“I would not discount Jon Snow, Lord Tyrion.” He chuckled. “He’s a sneaky fucker.”

Even Grey Worm smiled. Tyrion scowled, opening his mouth to continue with something, when a loud crack sounded. They all turned their heads to the Golden Company, who shifted in place. The horses began to whine and dance in place as another crack sounded. It was like stone, he thought, frowning and looking up at the gate. Stone cracking, but you couldn’t crack stone, unless…

The gate burst open in an explosion of flame and heat, the waves washing over them all as the great black dragon screamed, fire flowing from its mouth like water from a pump. Davos gasped and Tyrion let out a yelp, the armies around them, save the Unsullied, throwing their swords in the air and cheering and screaming as the dragon swept up and over them. 

“He can’t be…” Tyrion exclaimed. 

Oh but he can, Davos thought, grinning at the image of the dragon flying overhead, a small figure on its back, flash of silver from the sword in his hand. He clapped Tyrion’s back, the man still stunned. “What did I tell you about Jon Snow, Lord Tyrion? He is a sneaky fucker.” 

“But…he was…” Tyrion stammered. 

Dragons only have one rider, he remembered from the books Shireen read to him. When a rider dies they can take another. He chuckled, shaking his head. Jon Fucking Snow. “He’s a dragon,” he murmured, as Drogon set fire to the scorpions and the armies ran at the open gate, the Golden Company all but scattering in the chaos. He drew his sword and nudged Grey Worm, who took off running, screaming as they advanced.

~/~/~/~/~/~

It was not an easy thing, mounting Drogon, but he’d done it.

The dragon had seemed reluctant at first, but then lowered his wing, allowing him to climb onto his back the night before. There can only be one rider and he had been Rhaegal’s and she had been Drogon’s. Now…without her…he was the only remaining dragon rider in the Known World. Drogon was the last dragon. They would avenge his mother, he told the dragon, stroking his snout and connecting with him before he made the move to climb onto his scaly hide.

He remembered his histories. He flew into the sun, high enough where they could not see. He’d hurtled down, almost straight at the fleet, and set fire to the ships before they knew what was happening. The scorpions had tried to hit the dragon, but he was too fast. Dragons learn. Dragons adapt. Dragons are not slaves, not sheep, and they were smarter than the men who made the scorpions. They were also faster. 

All Jon could see was fire and ash and smoke. He’d opened the gate for the armies to enter King’s Landing, he’d destroyed the scorpions. It had been over in a matter of moments, Drogon swooping up and down and over the city, taking out the Lannister forces in one burst of dragonfire. He rained fire and blood on everyone who had a hand in taking Dany from him. 

Drogon landed lightly on one of the burned ramparts, wings outstretched and head lifting up to release a victorious scream. It had a tinge of mourning. He missed his mother. She should be the one taking back the city, Jon thought, his chest rising and falling with each heaving breath. His eyes wide and unblinking on the Red Keep in front of him. It was right there. The imposing structure on the edge of the city, fire and smoke burning around him. There was nothing in his vision but the Keep. Aegon began it and Maegor finished. Generations of Targaryens were born there and died there. Married there, fucked there, killed and maimed and every other horrible thing in their history. It was filled with so much blood. 

Inside its halls was the throne of swords. Aegon’s throne. The throne everyone fought and died for. How many of his family had died in the quest for its power? He could only stare and try to breathe, but it became more and more difficult. They killed Dany. They killed Dany so he could sit on that fucking throne. She had endured so much tragedy and pain for the throne. 

Drogon let out another scream and he closed his eyes as he heard the bells ringing. Tyrion said that meant Cersei had surrendered. Meant the war was over. How could it be over? They had wrecked so much havoc for so long and now itw as over? Jon felt his heart beating in his ears. A rush of blood into his head and he gasped for breath. All he could feel was fire and pain. 

She was dead.

Dany was gone.

The only home she ever wanted and she could not have it. They stole it from her and they killed her for it. He should let them give up. That was the honorable thing to do. When the swords fell to the ground and the hands came up, you let the enemy live. He closed his eyes and felt a wash of heat over his body. His hands gripped the spines beneath him. The scarf around his neck, protecting him from the fire that burned around still smelled like her. He closed his eyes and thought she was with him in that moment, her hands over his, guiding him. 

Drogon lifted off the rampart at his urging and he turned him towards the Red Keep.

~/~/~/~/~/~

On the grounds outside of the horror that stretched outside of the melted gate of King’s Landing, Tyrion Lannister looked up at the sound of the dragon’s screams. He watched as the beast did not stop or land, heading straight for the towers of the Red Keep. No, no, no, no, he thought, his mouth falling open in horror, watching as the beast circled and fire spiraled around the base and along the walls, a coil of flame, smoke, and exploding in the air. 

And inside the walls the Dothraki and the Unsullied began to slaughter anyone in their path. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, he thought weakly, thinking of his brother somewhere in the nightmare and his sister in the melting building. He closed his eyes. Jon Snow was supposed to be the one to temper this behavior. Not the one to cause it. 

He thought of Davos’s words when the black dragon burst from the fire. They all thought Jon Snow was the wolf that could fight back the dragon, not realizing that all along he was the one they should have been watching all along.

~/~/~/~/~/~

The single thought in his mind was that he needed to ensure Cersei Lannister was dead. Jon climbed off Drogon with practiced ease, withdrawing Longclaw and marching from where he’d landed Drogon in front of the Keep. The dragon screamed, blowing fire around him. He left the dragon to his rage, knowing Drogon had his own revenge. 

He strode through the crumbling entrance and held his sword at the sight of someone coming towards him. It was the Hound. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, yelling over the sound of Drogon and the bells and the fire raging around them. 

“I’m here to kill my fucking brother,” the Hound shouted, pushing by him. He spun around, glaring. “Your sister is here.”

“My sister?” Arya? It had to be Arya, why would Sansa be here? “Why?”

Sandor smirked and let out a barking laugh. “She’s going to kill the queen.”

Jon stood in place for a moment and lifted his head when a series of bricks began to crumble. He looked up and scowled, but took off, heading up the spiral stairs after Clegane. He encountered a master with no chain, a pin on his chest with the Hand symbol. The man gaped at him for a moment, but Jon gave him no time, Longclaw slicing through the air and through the man’s neck, his body falling off the broken staircase into the inferno raging beneath. 

He emerged onto a landing of sorts, which might have been a hallway when there was a Red Keep. Drogon was beating his wings and flying around, still sending flames shooting in every direction. Fire on fire exploded through the Keep. He blinked through ash and held his sword out, eyes sweeping across the space until he saw her, pacing around and trying to find a way out, but there was only one and he was blocking her. 

The queen did not look like how she had the last time he’d seen her in the Dragonpit. The crown on her head was gone and she was streaked with dirt and soot. She was sobbing, hands out and trying to find something, anything to grab. She turned and stared at him, realizing who he was a moment too late as he lifted the sword up, clutched in his hands. “No!” she sobbed, falling backwards against a still standing column. She flinched as it cracked behind her, a hand out again. “No please! I surrender!”

It was funny how scared she was with no one there to protect her, Jon thought. He wondered if she thought about that when she had Missandei killed. Or when she lied to their faces about coming to their aide in the North. He narrowed his eyes. “You surrender?”

“Yes,” she cried. She frowned a little, shaking her head. “Who…you…you’re Ned Stark’s bastard. Where is the Dragon bitch?”

Fire burned inside of him. He kept his voice steady. “The dragon bitch is dead.” He smiled. “And I’m not Ned Stark’s bastard.”

It didn’t seem to matter to Cersei, who scrambled back, her skirts tearing as she fought for some semblance of control, both physically and mentally. He could see her mind going, trying to find a way to talk out of her situation. “Please,” she choked, hands up again. “I’m pregnant. You wouldn’t kill a pregnant woman, would you?”

No, of course not, but he didn’t believe her. He frowned. “You want mercy but you were not willing to grant such mercy to anyone else. You didn’t grant mercy to the woman you beheaded for no reason.” He smiled. “You allowed women and children to die and you expect me to care?”

Green eyes wide, Cersei continued to plead. “You are Ned Stark’s son. I remember you…you…you said you tried to be honorable and true to your word and you couldn’t…you had already pledged…please, you’re honorable, you’re a Stark.”

How wrong you are, Queen Cersei, he thought briefly. “I am not a Stark,” he whispered. He knelt in front of her and smiled at her confused expression. The world was falling apart around them and here he was kneeling in front of her and smiling. It must look a bit odd. “I am the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. My name is Aegon.” He stood and held Longclaw out, seeing her eyes widen when she realized what would happen next. “And I’m going to kill you.”

A scream tore from her lips. “No! I don’t want to die! Please, please, I don’t want to die!”

“Did that stop you from killing everyone else who didn’t want to die? From murdering my father?” he demanded.

“That was Joffrey! I didn’t want him to, but…but he was the king!”

“You were his fucking mother!” he bellowed. This was the monster who birthed the boy who killed Ned for no reason other than Ned had honor. This was the woman who turned Sansa into the creature she was now and no longer his sister. Who burned the Sept of Baelor. How many other crimes had she committed with just her words? He lifted Longclaw. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No!” she screamed and then he saw her eyes dart behind him. 

Jon spun, sword still aloft, and saw Jaime Lannsiter emerge. Cersei screamed for him, sobbing for her brother and trying to stand, but her legs failed her. He made a move to swing Longclaw at the Kingslayer when he paused. The sword in the Kingslayer’s hand. It wasn’t smoky. Just a sword. He frowned. What? He stared as the man ran towards Cersei, kneeling and drawing her to her feet. “Well, guess I’ll have to kill two lions instead of one,” he said.

Cersei sneered, her terrified expression morphing into one of triumph. “You will die.” She laughed. “I was lying, I’m not pregnant, you Starks will believe anything.” She gripped at Jaime, peering up at him. “Please, get me out of here, I don’t want to die, there ahs to be a way out.”

Jaime nodded and the sword fell from his hand, reaching it up to touch her face. “Yes. There is a way out.” His hand began to curl around her neck. She stared at him, reaching to grip at his hand, but it did not stop around her neck. Cersei choked, face turning red as she scrambled to try to stop him, but it was too late. 

Jon stared in a mix of horror and fascination as the former queen gasped for her breath. She sobbed and tried to stop her brother from killing her, but the Kingslayer did not let go. “Jaime why?” she gasped, managed to get out, her eyes going bloodshot. 

And then the golden hand came up and slipped beneath the neck of his tunic. It pushed up and Cersei tried to scream, but no sound came out, her body going limp when the face of Jaime Lannister fell from the girl who stood in his place. “Because,” Arya said, voice dead and steady. “You killed my father. You killed everyone who mattered.” She dropped the queen from her fingers, staring as the woman fell to a heap on the ground in front of her. For good measure, Arya removed Needle and slid it between the queen’s ribs, but she was already dead. Cersei Lannister no longer a threat to anyone. 

Arya turned and faced him. She still wore Jaime’s armor, but did not hold the Valyrian steel sword. She secured Needle at her hip. Knelt and lifted up the face. All Jon did was stare at her. He wasn’t sure what his sister had become. She held the face up. “I bested him in combat. He said if I won I could have his face. I could kill her. They either live together or die together.” She glanced down at the dead queen. “I guess they died together.”

There was no time for questions, although Jon had plenty. He was glad the queen was dead. He looked around them as the foundation of the Keep shook. Arya made a move to grab his hand, but he shook her off and walked towards what remained of a balcony. He stared out at the city in front of him. The walls burned and smoke rose from around. Fire was cleansing and it was cleansing the city in front of them. He smiled as Drogon landed on one of the levels above him, arms stretching and lifting up, the screech deep and deafening. 

He sensed Arya beside him. “Are there innocents dying?” she asked.

“Not on purpose.”

“Jon…what is wrong with you?” she whispered in horror. “What is happening? Where is your queen?”

“Dead.” He turned his head, not registering the shock on his little sister’s face. He would talk to her about it all later. Right now he watched as King’s Landing fell, as the fires began to die slowly from the snow that began to fall from the clouds forming above. He felt Drogon’s mind in his, the dragon savoring in the feeling of victory. Yes, he thought, you have avenged your mother. 

Arya shook her head. “No, she died?”

“Yes,” he murmured. “She died and you wanted me to be king.” He glanced sideways, her face filled with terror. There was a cut on her forehead, bleeding down her face, covered in dirt and grime. Arya was always his favorite. He wasn’t sure what he had become, but he also wasn’t sure what she had become either. He surveyed the scene below. “This is what happens when you get what you want. It doesn’t always work out how you thought.”

“I didn’t want this,” she cried. She grabbed at his arm. “Jon, I…I didn’t want her to die. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to be king, you’re my brother!” She laughed, but it sounded like a cry again. “That was Sansa’s doing. It had to be her.”

“It was and she got what she wished. Dany is dead and I am the king,” he murmured. He didn’t want her here. She needed to leave. He pushed at her. “Go. Leave. Go back to Winterfell.”

“Come with me.”

I can’t leave yet. He turned, facing her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, smiling down at her. His favorite sibling. “I’m not leaving Arya. I can’t leave.”

“Why not?”

He let go of her. Turned to face the burning city. Drogon screamed again. “Because, I still have to take her throne back.” 

Arya sobbed in horror. “Jon…that’s not you!”

On the contrary, he thought, climbing onto Drogon as the dragon descended for him. He looked sideways and wished he could say something to assuage whatever feelings she had about this entire situation. He pulled on the tether with the dragon and broke away from the burning Keep. 

On the contrary it seemed he was finally being himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Tyrion tries to convince Arya of the threat Jon presents to everyone, which is his mistake; Arya tries to reach her brother in the cloud of his grief and anger; Jon ponders the future and takes care of the Lannister problem.


	3. there's method in my madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon deals with Tyrion once and for all; in the Throne Room, Jon realizes Dany's dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I'm an English Lit nerd and Hamlet is my favorite. He's such a mess. Jon's randomness with the dragon skull here and his musings with the 'ghost' are inspired by it.

The sunlight from the battle had faded beyond gray clouds—or perhaps smoke—ash and snow falling over the remaining buildings of the Red Keep. Crumbling stone, melted stone, dust and debris…fires still raged. He could barely make out the shape of bodies in the street, the scent of burned flesh and bone roiling his stomach. Some bodies were from Lannister soldiers, others were Golden Company…once and awhile he came upon a dead ally, but more often then not it was the enemies.

Sometimes he found a woman, child, or old man, people caught in the battle. It was always the smallfolk who suffer when you nobles play your game of thrones, he’d heard someone say once, and as Tyrion realized just what they’d been fighting for the last several years, he could not agree more. 

Was this what Varys wanted when he had made his move to betray Daenerys? Was this what Sansa thought her brother would become? He was a part of it and he knew it, he would not deny that, but the young boy who had hid in the shadows during the feast at Winterfell, with a haunted look and brooding demeanor had become something else. 

Tyrion stopped behind a column, watching the black dragon fly over the gathering hoarde of Dothraki and Unsullied and Northmen, the leathery wings almost silent in the air as the beast coasted in descent, disappearing behind the ruins of Maegor’s Holdfast. He turned away, continuing to walk through the rubble. Was this really the great keep where he’d wandered with a cup of wine and had watched so many of the events of this world occur, removed from the violence and gore? 

He stopped at the base of a destroyed staircase, something catching his attention. He wasn’t sure what it was, if it was the red leather or the glint of the gold where gold should not normally be found. “No,” he whispered, hurrying as fast as his little legs could take him, falling to the ground and grunting with exertion from the weight of removing rubble from the face of the body. 

His big brother, the one who had saved him more often than not from Tywin or Cersei, lay there, his body broken and his face…oh gods, Tyrion thought, wanting to be sick. Where was his face? He looked at his brother’s body, wondering who took him down, since the so-called King of the Seven Kingdoms had not left the back of the dragon as he rained fire and blood on everyone. He picked up the dagger beside Jaime’s body, recognizing it as the Valyrian steel blade that had tried to kill a little boy and had taken down a king of death.

Arya Stark, he thought, stumbling from his brother’s body and wondering where his sister might be, if Jaime was dead then where was she? Captured? He laughed, as though this King would bother with holding a Lannister hostage. Especially one he blamed for the death of the dragon queen. We all did that one, he thought, emerging at the base of the stairs, the ones leading up to the main keep, where if you kept going you might find the Iron Throne.

“You survived.”

He turned at the voice of the girl, who stepped towards him and took the blade from his hand, securing it on her hip with the thin blade he knew she called Needle. “You killed my brother,” he whispered, rage building in him. 

“Funny about your brother, he was taken back to his cell, he was supposed to be released anyway, taken to the mainland,” Arya said, her gray eyes fixed on his. He ducked his head in understanding and heard her soft laugh. “You let him go early, gave him a head start and let him get here. He died protecting his queen, if that makes you feel better. Told me that if I killed her he’d let me have his face.”

He let that go, unsure how to address it. “And where is my sister?”

“Somewhere in there.” She gestured to the ruins of the keep. He closed his eyes in understanding. I am the last Lannister, he thought, looking over at the hoard. The Unsullied were knocking their spears into the stone, the Dothraki screaming in victory, and the Northmen were all shouting ‘The King in the North’ and lifting their swords in acknowledgment. 

Where was their King in the North? Had not made his grand entrance yet. He glared at Arya, who was watching the scene. This was his favorite sister. He frowned. “What happens now?”

“I go home.”

He gestured to the rubble, to the hoard, and to the burning chaos still around them. “No, I mean now. You know him, he’s your brother, and look what he did when he was hurting.” Hurting may have been an understatement, but Tyrion was not sure what to call it. He had loved, lost, and had never felt the need to burn an entire city to the ground. What happened with Jon Snow was not hurt. It was something else entirely. Pure destruction of the honorable and good wolf into the angry and vengeful dragon. 

Arya glared at him; he was not sure how best to approach her, but he sensed he had hit something inside of her that had her nodding slightly, before she realized and returned her gaze to the chaos. “You served a dragon once before.” She looked up at the top of the staircase, the dragon climbing up and over to perch on one of the destroyed parapets, screaming. “I did not trust her, I did not want her for my queen, and I told him so. He knew how I felt about her and he…he bent the knee. We were the last of the Starks, but he bowed to her. He loved her.” She scoffed. “I did not realize how much.” She seemed to think about something else, her voice hushed. “I did not realize the connection…” 

He focused on her eyes. She knew. “You know.”

She glared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know about him. About his true heritage.” 

It was her turn to sneer. “You know too?” She practically spit in front of him. “How?”

“Sansa told me.”

The disgust on her face had him taking a step backwards. The Starks and their honor. Sansa probably thought she had had honor when she broke whatever promise she had made not to tell about Jon’s birth. It was clear to him that Arya believed she had no honor for breaking that promise. She growled. “She swore before the hearttree!”

“She wanted him to be king. She was worried about Daenerys.”

“She just wanted to be queen in the North. She’s always wanted to be a queen.”

“You claim you didn’t trust her.”

Arya laughed. “I didn’t, but…” They both looked up as everyone went silent and stared as the former Bastard of Winterfell walked slowly across the dais and stood before them at the head of the stairs. The man had presence, Tyrion would give him that, and it was why they had clearly thought he would be a good king. Arya whispered. “He’s not the brother I grew up with.”

“He’s a killer,” Tyrion whispered, realizing what needed to be done. It pained him, but it had to happen. Perhaps this was what Varys was trying to avoid with Daenerys. He glanced at her; she said nothing, stared up at the man looking at them all from above. “You know that and I know that.” He continued. “No one will be safe if they cross him. What kind of a ruler is that? What do you think he is going to do if someone tries to threaten his children?” He wondered in that moment about Sansa. He closed his eeys briefly; she had no idea what she had done. “What about Sansa?’

That got her. Arya glared down at him. “What about her?”

“She broke the oath you clearly made to keep his parentage secret. It spiraled out of control and Daenerys died,” he explained. He waved his hand around, laughing harshly. “And he destroyed an entire city!”

“It was war.”

“My brother and my sister are dead!”

“And so are my brothers!” she fired back. 

Yes, the Starks did have more loss in this war than most of the houses, but we all have suffered for this fight. Tyrion looked back up at the man surveying them all, who had not spoken yet, although he clearly was going to say something to the victorious armies. “He’s a broken man, Arya. He is only thinking of revenge…the children he has with her. The will grow up and they will continue the cycle of revenge and violence.”

The wheel, Daenerys had said once to him. She wanted to break the wheel. 

The wheel had broken, but Jon Snow…or Aegon Targaryen as it were, was going to continue a different sort of wheel in her name. 

Arya hesitated; he wondered if he had reached something in her. She shook her head. “He just wanted to get rid of your sister. He’s done now.”

“Don’t you want this all to end though? For good? You know he isn’t going to stop.” Anyone was a threat to him now. He leaned in and kept his voice quiet. “You know what has to be done.” There, it was said. Varys had done it and now it was his turn. They were the ones who made kings and queens and the man looking down at them was not the king they thought he would be. He was a dragon. Or a wolf. Or whatever creature came from the union of both. 

They both walked up the stairs, stopping in the corner as Jon barely gave them a glance. From this distance Tyrion could see he wore no sigil acknowledging his former House. No wolves. No dragons either. All black leather, with the wolf pommel and a red scarf around his neck. His hair was tugged from his face and Tyrion realized it was similar to the Dothraki braids that Daenerys used to keep her long platinum locks. 

He’s becoming her, he thought, watching Grey Worm come to stand near him, shouting out in Valyrian. He recognized some of what was being said. Hail your King, the avenger of our Queen. He is the blood of the dragon and we will serve him as we served her, the Breaker of Chains. Arya cleared her throat. “What’s he saying?” she whispered.

“He avenged their queen, he wants them to serve him,” Tyrion loosely translated.

The new King took a step forward, a hand on the wolf pommel. He turned his head up to look at Drogon, who roared for silence, which fell over the crowd and muted the armies below. The ash and snow continued to fall, further muting the sounds. Except when Jon spoke, his voice was clear, and Tyrion had never heard him speak that loud before, the northern burr of his words still raspy but the emotion in them clear as the bells that had finally stopped ringing hours before.

“You all served Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” he shouted. He nodded to Grey Worm, who translated. Tyrion did not realize Grey Worm was fluent in Common Tongue. “You were slaves and she freed you and you still served her. You took back the Seven Kingdoms for her!” They began to shout again, but his voice silenced them a moment later. “You freed the world for her!”

Arya shook her head, breathing hard. “It’s all about her,” she whispered.

“You see my fear then.”

Their new king shouted again. “I am Jon Snow, the King in the North, but I was born under another name.” Oh gods, Tyrion realized, eyes widening. They were all going to know now. “My name is Aegon Targaryen and I will make sure our queen’s dream of a world free from slavery and evil is realized!”

That was it. Tyrion stepped forwards and Jon glanced at him, silent. He stared down at him. Tyrion shook his head. “I thought you were one of the good ones,” he whispered. “This is not the Jon Snow I met. The bastard boy who dreamed of serving and protecting the realm.”

The stranger smiled at him. The gray eyes were almost black as onyx. “I am not a bastard, Lord Tyrion. I am a Targaryen. It’s always been there.” He paused. Another smile. The eyes dead. “Took time to find him.”

“You murdered my brother and sister,” Tyrion whispered. He knew it was Arya, but she would never have done so without this man. He waved his hand. “You destroyed this city!”

Jon glared. Tyrion felt his stomach twist and he blanched. The hand holding the pommel of Longclaw had turned white from gripping it so hard. “And you murdered my Dany.” That was Varys, he thought, but wisely kept his mouth closed. He glanced at the movement of Grey Worm and one of the other Unsullied. Jon did not blink. “Arrest him.”

The last thing Tyrion saw was Arya staring at her brother with the same blank gaze she’d stared at the dagger when he’d handed it to her. Hopefully he’d gotten through to her, he thought. Hopefully she did it before he died.

~/~/~/~/~

Lord Tyrion Lannister had to die.

It was most unfortunate, Jon thought, remembering the hatred in the Imp’s eyes when Grey Worm dragged him away. Tyrion had never been a friend, but he had been something akin to a confidante. He understood what it meant to be unwanted and pushed aside. Cripples, bastards, and broken-things, he had said often. Tyrion had counseled her and been her Hand. She never would have given him that role if she did not believe in him. 

She never saw anyone for what the rest of the world saw him or her for. Bastards, former slaves, dwarves…it didn’t matter to her how you came to the world, it was how you behaved in that world. My Dany, Jon thought, closing his eyes briefly. He was avoiding the Iron Throne for the moment. Drogon had flown off, probably to find food, and Jon really did not care where or what anyone else was doing around him. 

He heard her behind him, although many others wouldn’t. “Arya,” he acknowledged.

“You can’t do this.”

So much for pleasantries. He turned and faced her. Arya stood in the broken archway. He had never been here when the Keep was still standing and he could not imagine exactly how it looked to her. The day she rode off with Sansa and Father was the last time he had seen her until she came to him in the godswood. Taller, harder, and scarier. He wasn’t sure what he had become, but he knew for certain he didn’t know what she had become either.

This might have been the old dungeons, he thought. He stopped in front of a broken skull. His hand touched the fang, almost as large as a child. Drogon might get this size. “Balerion,” he whispered. The mount of Aegon the Conqueror. His namesake. He glanced over his shoulder. “You were a child here. I imagine you came straight down to find the dragon skulls. Visenya was your favorite.”

“And Daeron was yours.”

“Daeron didn’t have a dragon. They’d died out by then.” He thought of his Daeron. The little boy who was likely sleeping back at Dragonstone, an infant brought into this world in blood and violence, and who lived blissfully unaware of the horrors of the world. The injustice of it all. He ran his hand over the fang, not turning to look at her. “Did you know that Daenerys was with child when she died?”

The sound Arya made was enough for him. No, she didn’t know. How could she, he didn’t even know. He just wasn’t sure if anyone had told her yet. Not many knew. Tyrion no doubt would have tried to convince her of something. Jon had yet to find out. That Lannister could never keep his mouth shut. “Jon, I didn’t know…” she trailed off.

“I have a son and a daughter.” He finally turned around, standing inside of the remaining skull of Balerion. He leaned on the gaping hole where the dragon’s eye had once peered out. He chuckled. “You have a niece and a nephew or…what’s the child of your cousin? Another cousin?”

Arya shook her head, eyes wide, and for once he could see something other than revenge, fury, and disgust. “Jon I had no idea…did…” She looked sick. “Did they know…when they…”

“No, I don’t think so.” Varys was a monster but he would hope that he wouldn’t have poisoned a pregnant woman. He gazed at her again. “She died in my arms. She died scared and bleeding and she didn’t even know that she had a son and a daughter…she didn’t know that I loved her as much as I did. She thought I was disgusted.” 

“Oh Jon.”

He smirked. “You’re a hypocrite Arya.” She was his favorite sister, but she really did not seem to understand just what she was doing. He ducked under the broken jaw of Balerion, standing in front of her again. He smiled again. “You took the face off of Jaime Lannsiter and killed Cersei. You have killed before, more than just the Night King, you said as much. I didn’t question it. I should have, probably, but you’re my sister and I trusted you.” He looked at Needle. That was so long ago. They were different people when he’d gifted her the sword. “And you should have trusted me. You should have known I would never have bent the knee for someone I did not think was worthy of being my queen.”

Her forehead wrinkled as she screwed up her eyes and he realized she was trying not to cry. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

“You should be. She’s dead now. The mother of my children.” He smiled. “My family. The woman I wanted to make my wife. She would have been good for this world and you pushed her away. I pushed her away.” He laughed. “We took everything from her.” He waved his arms out, spinning in a circle, staring up at the smoke filled sky. “This was hers. It’s gone now.”

If she can’t have it then no one can, he vowed. He spun back on Arya, glaring. “Sansa broke the vow,” Arya finally said. She seemed as sick over it as he was. Ned Stark would be ashamed of his eldest daughter if he knew what she’d done. “She thought she was doing the right thing for the North.”

“She thought she was doing the right thing for Sansa.” Dany’s words were truer than any she’d said, when she told him that Sansa was not the girl he’d known. He had made a mistake. A costly mistake. Dany was dead and Sansa was still alive in Winterfell, no doubt hoping he’d die so she could become the Queen. He felt sick over what had to be done. He sighed. “Sansa will die for it.”

Arya choked. “What? Jon, no!” She stepped towards him, trying to grab his hand. “You can’t mean that! She’s our sister!”

“And she broke a sacred vow, she encouraged rebellion of the Northern houses against me, and she betrayed her queen!”

“Your queen!”

“I was the King in the North!” he roared. Bricks crumbled around him. Hot tears stung the corners of his eyes. “I was the one the Northern lords named and when I bent the knee, I bent the knee for the North! She was your queen as much as mine. Sansa betrayed that!” He laughed. “And her betrayal led to Dany’s death.”

It didn’t seem to matter to his sister, who almost started to cry then. She grabbed his wrists, gripping tight. He could barely feel it though. “Jon, please, you cannot do this, she is our family!”

“Dany was my family!” He sobbed. It was the first time since he’d flown off on Drogon that he allowed himself to feel something. Something other than pure hatred. He wanted her there with him. He wanted to stroke her silver hair and unbraid it and rebraid it again like he’d done in their cabin on the boat. It was barely a year ago and it felt like a lifetime. He wanted to smell the lemons and jasmine from her oils and soaps. Feel her skin under his hands. He wanted to tell her over and over how sorry he was for how he’d been before she died. 

He had made the mistake. I should have listened to her, I should have kept it secret and never told anyone. He shook his head at Arya, seeing her differently. This was his favorite sibling, the only Stark who looked like him, and yet she was a complete stranger. A murderer who trusted Sansa, the one she hated the most, over him. He raked his hand over his hair, the curls tumbling free from the braids he’d tugged it into that morning, wanting to channel some part of Daenerys Stormborn into him when he took back her city.

Arya squared off. “She was your family, I understand, but…”

“You must have never loved anyone the way I loved her, or you would understand why I need to do this,” he interrupted. He didn’t know what she’d experienced. The horrors she’d seen, but he’d seen horrors too. They all had. He frowned. “She was the love of my life. She was my blood. She saw me.” And I failed her so terribly. He shook his head. “And you all just used her and threw her out when you took what you wanted. Like table scraps for the barn cats.”

“Jon I’m sorry…I didn’t…” Arya huffed. “We needed her. She saved the North but we didn’t have to bend the knee.”

“It was already bent, you clearly cannot remember that.” Neither could Sansa. For someone who cared about the North as much as her, she had a funny way of showing it. He stared at her. “The Northern lords who abandoned us in our time of need will die. Father would never allow anyone to live who ignored the call from the Lord of Winterfell.”

“Jon…” She chewed her bottom lip. “Please…think of your children.”

“I am!” The children who did not deserve this world. Who would grow up without their mother. He sobbed. “I am thinking of my children. They will grow up just like us…it is a wheel. A wheel she wanted to break.”

“Please Jon…don’t…”

“I pushed her away.” He had to be honest about that. “I was…I was an idiot. I thought the blood relation was…was a problem, but it in the end it didn’t matter.” He smirked. “I’m a Targaryen.”

Arya’s face went cold again. “You are a Stark.”

He didn’t hear her. Not really. He began to walk around the skull, lightly brushing his fingertips over the bleached bone. It was awe inducing. The last remains of the original Targaryen family, who took this world and bent it to theirs, with fire and blood. He smiled, hands pressing to the back of Balerion’s skull, leaning against it. “I’ve always been one.” Images flashed in his mind. They always said it was the wolf’s blood. The animalistic need to run, fight, and kill. Brandon had it. Lyanna had it. 

Except it wasn’t wolf’s blood for him, not all of it. “Beneath the wolf there was a dragon,” he murmured, lifting his head and meeting her gray eyes again. He smiled. “You think you never saw it, but it was there.”

“No Jon, it wasn’t. You’re just…” She sighed. “It’s the grief.”

“It’s the truth.” He pushed himself up onto the skull, sitting atop it and crouched, a wolf waiting for the kill. A dragon. He shook his head. “You weren’t there. I took the head of a man who begged for mercy, all because he refused an order.” He thought of Janos Slynt, but felt no remorse for the kill. “I beat a brother half to death once. If Sansa hadn’t stopped me I would have murdered Ramsay Bolton with my bare hands.” He thought on that for a moment. Ramsay was a torturer and murderer. At the time he wanted him dead, but afterward he’d thought it might have been nice to keep him alive long enough to experience something akin to what he’d wrought on others. He looked down from atop the skull at Arya, who continued to gape at him, seeing him for the first time. He smiled again. “You’ve killed. You understand.”

Arya’s eyes closed. “Yes,” she murmured. She nodded. “I’ve killed those who wronged my family.”

“And so have I.” He remembered the feeling of Rhaegal beneath him, flying the dragon over the army of the dead and the excitement and rush from hearing and feeling the flames Rhaegal released on the dead. He ran his fingers over the top of Balerion’s skull again, wondering what the Black Dread must have been like in person. A sight to behold. Drogon would be that one-day. As large as Balerion and twice as deadly. “Do you know I can speak to them in Valyrian?”

His sister had approached the skull; she seemed lost in her memory. She knelt and picked up a piece from one of the other bones in the former tomb. It was one of Baleron’s ribs. Larger than almost her, she had to heft it up, studying it. “You can?” she whispered.

“I should have realized when I could touch Drogon, but I didn’t. I can speak to them in Valyrian and they listen to me.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Valyrian.”

“She trained them to follow commands.” 

“Like dogs.”

“Dragons are not slaves,” he whispered. She said that often as well. He slid off of Balerion, lightly patting the dragon on the side. “I am Aegon, not Jon. My children will grow in a world free of tyrants and evil people like Cersei Lannister.”

The irritation of his comment flickered over her forehead. “I killed Cersei.” She arched her eyebrows. “I killed the Night King.”

His nostrils flared at that statement. The Night King should have been his kill, but he was too busy trying to get an undead Viserion to focus on something other than him. He nodded. “I am grateful. She was grateful and you did nothing.” 

“I will live with that the rest of my life Jon,” Arya breathed. She reached and gripped at his hand, but he didn’t feel it. She begged. “Please do not do…whatever it is you are going to do.”

What, kill Tyrion Lannister? He scowled. “You said you will never know her. You made up your mind about her from the beginning. They always said Northerners were stubborn and didn’t like outsiders, but you just don’t like people who aren’t like you.” Foreign whores, she’d said, confessing her fears to him in the cabin of the ship. She was scared they would see her as a foreign whore and conqueror. Maybe they would, but it wouldn’t matter. 

What is the opinion of sheep to a dragon? 

He shook her hand free from his wrist. “You said you wouldn’t know her, well Arya, I don’t know you.”

That finally broke whatever she had been using to hold back her tears. They fell on her dirty and bloody face, turning it to grime. She tried to reach him again. “You are my brother, not my cousin! You are Jon!” She sniffed. “You are my favorite. The only one who understands me.”

Do I understand you now? He wasn’t sure. He nodded. “And you are mine.”

“Are you going to kill me?” she whispered. He scowled. Kill her? Why would he kill her? She continued. “Because Tyrion thinks you are. Tyrion thinks you will kill anyone you view as a threat. Like Sansa. He thinks we should end you before you get a chance.”

If he had no intention of killing the last Lannister before… Jon narrowed his eyes, wheels turning in his mind, piecing it all together. “Tyrion said this?”

“In so many words.” She drew out the catspaw’s dagger, holding it loosely in her hands. His lip twitched. Arya studied it. “This dagger almost killed Bran. I used it to kill Littlefinger. The Night King. Jaime Lannister.” She flicked it towards him, handle facing him. She stared. “He thinks I would turn on you. He’s wrong. You are my brother, I said it beneath the hearttree and I meant it. I don’t know what you have become, but you are sad and angry and I regret the role I played in it.” She blinked quickly. “I hope I can regain your trust.”

He stared at the dagger. Arya did not break her oath like Sansa. He waited a moment and reached, taking the dagger. He turned and sheathed it in his sword belt. “You scare me,” he said.

She laughed. Gods, she laughed, and for some reason he smiled too. “You scare me too Jon…I don’t know who you are now. I thought I always did.” She finally wiped her eyes. Rubbing her fingers together. “I don’t want to be this person anymore.” She looked up. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You don’t want to be the person you are either, right?”

He wasn’t sure. He quite liked it that now people listened to him. Before he would speak and everyone would interrupt. They would never let him have his mind. He told them he didn’t want to be king and no one, not even his sister, listened. He didn’t want to be a pawn anymore. He wasn’t. “I am not a person, I am me.”

That was not the answer she wanted. She frowned again. “But what about your children?”

A fire crept through his heart and began to spread in his body. He set his jaw. His gray eyes flashed. Protective and warning. “Do not use my children to convince me of anything,” he growled. 

He pushed by her, not looking back as he headed to the throne.

~/~/~/~/~

It was an ugly piece of metal. Aegon the Conqueror must have been blind. The thought made him turn to Maester Aemon. Did he know, he wondered. He stepped up towards the hulking piece of iron. The ash and snow covered floor stretched before him, a valley between the twisted bits of metal from the braziers and window hangings and the crumbling brick of the walls. The former lion symbol of the Lannisters, that once hung behind the throne was twisted and half-emerged in a smoldering fire. He did not look back as he approached the object of so many fantasies, dreams, prophecies, and wars.

He stopped before it. It was not as large as he thought it might be. It looked uncomfortable. He turned, staring at his boot imprints in the white fluff. Somewhere he heard the leather wings of Drogon beating against the sky. He sank down into the chair, his palms wide on the armrests, and his fingers curling over the right one, around the pommel of a former lord’s sword. His eyes fluttered shut at the feeling that raged beneath the surface.

This was her throne. The throne of their ancestors. Fire and blood built and for over two decades pretenders had sat upon it. Ordered the murders and enslavement of innocent people. “This was yours,” he whispered, to no one in particular. He thought he felt her there. Smelled the lemons. He smiled, crossing his legs and leaning to prop his chin up in his hand. He looked up and saw her, beautiful and pale, like a ray of moonlight approaching. 

Her footsteps made no imprint in the ash. “You got me my throne,” she drawled, reaching to drag her fingers along his hand. He turned his palm upward and her small one covered it. She leaned in and brushed her lips to his. “You did this for me.”

I would do anything for you. I should have done everything for you. “It is what you deserve and more,” he whispered. He tilted his head up and smiled as she kissed him again. It felt like before. His mouth opened under hers and she gripped the back of his head, pouring her soul into his. He reached and tugged her into his lap, where she laughed against him. He smiled. “Did you ever dream of this happening when you took your throne?”

She hummed. “At first, no. After…” She hissed when he bit at her bottom lip, drawing blood. “Yessss.”

Fucking on the Iron Throne, he thought with a grin. “Daenerys Stormborn,” he whispered. “You are bad.”

“I am a dragon.” She kissed him again. “And so are you.” She stroked his hair again, her fingers wrapping around a stray curl near his temple. The violet in her eyes darkened to indigo. He had a brief memory of when he got angry as a child, when Robb had taken his training sword when Ser Rodrik wasn’t looking and hit him with it out of frustration. He’d pushed him and grabbed back his sword and Robb had said his eyes looked purple. He’d just told him to go see Maester Luwin, he must have hit his head too hard. 

No one had purple eyes. Only Valyrians. Only his Dany, he thought with a hum of satisfaction, scanning the throne room. She turned his face to peer down at her again. Soft curls of silver hair brushed against his cheek as he leaned towards her. This was how he wanted her to be. Soft, pliable, and yet strong as steel. He dug his fingers into her hip, bunching in the black silk of her dress into his fist. “I need you,” he whispered.

She pushed her nose to his. “You did this all for me. You got revenge for me.”

“I will burn down everyone who stands in my way for you,” he whispered.

This was a ghost in his arms, a ghost of the woman he loved, and he kissed her one more time, feeling his heart burst in his chest, crying for her. Crying for what could be. “I love you,” she murmured. Her fingers brushed across his face and he felt as though they were truly there. “Be there for me…just be there for me.”

And she was gone. 

He heard a sound at the end of the hall, lifting his head from where he was holding it in his hands, his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. He lifted his face, but kept his shoulders hunched, watching as Ser Davos approached. “I did not think you wanted the throne,” Davos said, his voice muffled in the cushion of the ash and snow. “You didn’t even want the North.”

“Things have changed.” He ran his palm over the arm of the chair again. “You know hse once told me about it. Told me how Aegon fashioned it with dragonfire from the swords of his enemies. She could barely count to twenty, what were a thousand swords in the mind of a little girl who could not count to twenty?” He dragged his finger over the cold metal, staring at it. Hes hook his head. “She was a child. They took her family from her. Took her childhood. Took everything. Her children, her trust, and her love…” He finally looked up from the chair and met Davos’s gaze. “And in the end they took her life.”

All for this fucking piece of ugly iron.

He stood up from the chair and did not look back, walking away from it and stopping at the end of the hall, Davos at his side. He glanced at his advisor and the man who had been like a father to him over the last year or so. “I grew up a bastard. I’m not one. She wanted to break the world free from thoughts like that. Get rid of the constant cycle of one family in power over the other. No more.”

Davos frowned, bushy eyebrows and beard reminding him briefly of Tormund. He had to get back to the North soon. Tormund might like to know that there were dragon babies, he thought. Davos glanced at the throne and then to him again. “What are you going to do?”

The tether pulled. He felt the dragon before Davos knew he was nearing, ignoring Davos’s fear. Drogon wouldn’t hurt him. The dragon shifted in the remainder of the hall. He looked up at her son, meeting the dragon’s yellow and red eyes. He nodded his head and Drogon opened his mouth, pulling his neck back as the fire built up in the back of his throat. He did not look back. 

_”Dracarys.”_

As he walked down the stairs with Davos, away from the room where so many families had been destroyed, Drogon screamed and burned, destroying the one thing that his mother had wanted and that had ultimately destroyed her.

~/~/~/~/~

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

I want to do this more than anything in the world right now. Jon approached the small man sitting on a piece of rubble, pinching his scarred nose in his fingertips, no doubt trying to come up with a way out of his fate. He cleared his throat. “Lord Tyrion.”

The surprise in the Imp’s face was all he needed. He jumped off the rubble, stammering. “I…I did not realize…” He looked beyond to where Arya had emerged from behind one of the remaining columns. He swallowed hard and bowed his head, his voice smooth again. “Your Grace. I presume you are here to put me on trial.”

“I have already put you on trial.”

“Oh?”

Davos stepped up to him again, voice quiet, whispering into his ear, where Tyrion could not hear. “He may have made mistakes Your Grace, but perhaps there is an alternative for him? The Wall, perhaps?”

“The Wall means nothing now,” he whispered back. It was hardly anything when he went to serve there. He turned his back to Tyrion, speaking to Davos, reminding him just exactly what situation they had to control. Arya stood near as well and Grey Worm. Raqho and the other bloodriders. “He betrayed her more than one time. Each time he convinced her not to remove him and that was her mistake.” Dany was always so trusting, so quick to believe the good…gods he loved her. He closed his eyes. “He may have been betraying her the entire time, we will never know.”

“Do not confuse your anger and frustration with paranoia, Your Grace.”

“I’m not paranoid,” he shot back. He nodded to Arya. “He tried to convince my sister to kill me.”

Davos’s eyes widened. He looked at Arya. “Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“He is a threat to my children.” There was a very carefully controlled rage building inside of him. He moved to push it down, just for now, because it would take over if he was not careful. His children had not been in the world for very long and he was not even sure just what he felt about them at the moment, but no one threatened them. If they did, they would die.

Jon turned around and approached Tyrion again. Drogon landed on one of the parapets above, leaning his head down and making a sound similar to a curious cat. He arched his eyebrows at Tyrion’s blank look. “You trusted your sister more than you trusted your queen.” He frowned. “You told Varys about my birth, resulting in the death of your queen.” He sighed. “I cannot execute you for poor council, but you provided that as well. So many deaths and losses because of your advice. Your curious love of your family, who have only ever hurt this world.” He slammed his brows together. “And you tried to have me killed. You would kill my children if possible.”

Tyrion glared up at him. “I don’t kill children.”

“No, you don’t kill anyone, you keep your hands clean and have others do it for you.”

“You are blinded,” Tyrion tried to explain, but Jon merely laughed. “Blinded by emotion and anguish and I am sorry, but…this world cannot have another leader who only rules on emotion.”

“You do not practice what you preach,” Jon said. He was emotional, but he was thinking clearly. “And your unfounded fears in your queen resulted in her death. Resulted in two children who will grow without a mother. This world would have been a beautiful place if you had allowed her to simply live. If we all had trusted her and accepted her.”

He sighed hard. Tyrion clearly did not seem to understand, which was unfortunate. He glanced down at the Lannister. “Do you have any last words?”

Tyrion set his jaw. “No.”

“The man who passes the sentence shall swing the sword.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Tyrion said. 

“I thought you didn’t have any last words.”

Tyrion did not acknowledge that. He took a step forward, knowing there was no way he could run from the situation. “This on this, just for a few moments more. Think beyond your grief.”

I am finally thinking beyond it. He looked over and saw her standing over by Grey Worm, smile on her lips and her silver hair coiled over her shoulder, shimmering like glass in the brief ray of sunlight making its way through the clouds. He walked over to Tyrion and knelt so he could look the man in the eye. He patted his shoulder. “I remember you said something once, about how you preferred to die.”

The Imp chuckled. “You’re going to pour me a glass of wine and get a whore to suck my cock?”

Jon smiled. “No. Just think of the wine. Imagine the drink. You always did like fancy drinks. Dornish red and Arbor gold, if I recall.” 

It did its purpose, the dwarf frowning and peering at him. “What are you talking---“

The words caught in the Lannister’s throat, one of the only times it had ever happened, and his green eyes widened. Jon twisted the dagger he’d carefully removed while talking to him, ensuring it hit its spot between the ribs and into the heart. He stood, letting go and releasing the dagger, not looking at the body of the former advisor. He ignored Arya, who tried to reach for him and Davos. Grey Worm and Raqho moved to take the body away. 

His mind was blank. Drogon crawled from the parapet and allowed him to climb into the perch behind his frill. He could not see or think or hear. So he simply allowed the dragon to scream at anyone who dared to step towards them and push away with his mighty wings, flying off towards the east.

~/~/~/~/~

The clouds faded as they flew from King’s Landing towards the island in the Narrow Sea. Jon did not look below, his gaze focused on the horizon, but he knew that beneath them on the crystal blue seas were the remains of the Iron Fleet and burning patches of fire on the waves. He knew the smoke would fade to wisps of nothing. The cracked earth would become lush green and eventually he would arrive at the place where the Targaryens of old had made their home.

It was not where he would make his home, but it would do for now. 

He landed Drogon on one of the ramparts; the fused obsidian had been made by dragons and did not yield beneath the mighty talons. He climbed off the beaast’s back and walked around to his snout, lightly stroking the bumpy scales. Drogon closed his eyes, almost purring. He cried, a mournful tune, and Jon wanted to cry with him. “I know you miss her too,” he whispered. He wanted to take away the dragon’s pain too. He bit his lip and breathed the word he’d been feeling this whole time, grateful. _”Kirimvose.”_

Drogon closed his eyes and breathed deep. He felt the pain seep into him, the dragon using the connection to express his feelings. He nodded again and leaned against the snout. This was the last dragon. He stepped back and let go, watching Drogon move away and fall off the side of the castle towards the water, plummeting down before cutting up over the waves and flying off. 

Jon watched Drogon fly away, hoping that he would see him again. Each time the dragon flew off he never expected him to return. He was not Drogon’s mother and he may have been his mount for the battle, but he was not bound to him in the same way. He turned away and walked towards her room, which had become his. He changed from his dirty and ashy clothes, numb. 

He opened one of her trunks and rummaged, finding one of her scarves, inhaling the clean scent of it and smiling. He kept it in his hand and went to the set of rooms beside hers, seeing the Dothraki midwives and wet nurses leaning over the cradle in the open archway. Salty air tingled in his nose and he was glad the twins were able to sleep in such a relaxing environment. They could have whatever they wanted. 

The Dothraki spoke to him, but he did not understand their language yet. He would make an effort to try, same with Valyrian, because he knew she would want her children to speak as many of the world’s languages as possible. He nodded, thanking them, and waited for them to depart. He glanced at the cradle, smiling. “I’m here,” he whispered, reaching for a pillow and resting it on his knees. He took them carefully, one at a time, and rested them on the pillow, drawing his knees up and propping his bare feet on the low table in front of the chair. 

They were both so small. He was grateful to the gods, he would thank them properly next time he was in a godswood, for saving them. They were strong and healthy. “You are both so much like her,” he said. Daeron had her hair and Lyella had his, but they both had her eyes. Lyella’s had more gray in them though. He could see her features in their tiny faces, from the shape of their noses to the perfect bow of their pink lips. He bit his lip and leaned forward over their tiny forms, kissing their foreheads. “You are so much like her.”

“She was a princess, you know. Before she was a queen. She was born here, on the worst storm the world had seen in centuries, and they called her Stormborn. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.” He began to feel his shoulders shake and could not stop the tears that choked him. His voice thickened and tightened. “She only ever wanted the world to be good. I took her from that goal and she died for it. So I will make sure that you both live in the world she wanted.” 

“You will never know pain,” he continued. Not like her. “And only love.” That was what she would want for her children. She would have loved them more than anything. 

He nuzzled them both and rocked from side to side, his hands cupping their heads on the pillow and smiling when they both made sounds of happiness, their little fists pushing up at him. He pulled back slightly and continued to smile, humming to himself. “You will be Targaryens,” he whispered. “Not bastards. It was all I was afraid of when I was a boy…putting that shame on another, but I could never be ashamed of you both.” He bit his lip again. It was chewed raw and he could taste blood. “I would have married her. I should have married her. I got in my head and didn’t come out of it until it was too late.” 

They would have been married in the godswood, under a full moon, and she would have been beautiful, like a snow goddess. He would have placed a crown of blue winter roses in her hair. The world would know their love. He’d make sure of it. “I was stupid,” he whispered. He gazed out the open arches and to the sea, staring towards the east, wondering where Drogon had laid her to rest. He would like to go there one day. Place blue winter roses on her resting place. Light fire to them and watch the flames dance. 

Daeron cried and Lyella began to whine. He returned his attention to his children, humming nothing in particular and rocking back and forth, enveloping them all from the pain of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback has once again blown me away, I am so glad that everyone (most everyone) seems to be enjoying this and following along. The entire fic is mapped out and probably will be a few more (very long) chapters. You'll note I have not removed Dany from the tags-- she is still a very big part of this fic and I'm excited for the end :D (just gave it all away I think)-- these two idiots in love can't even stay away in death, you know?
> 
> Not sure when next chapter will be up as I will be busy tomorrow when I normally planned to write it and I'm going to need some time with it.
> 
> Next time: Buckle up, Sansa lands on Dragonstone.


	4. white wolf, broken wolf, red wolf, and wandering wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa arrives at Dragonstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to get this out while I was hanging out home sick from work. Enjoy!

_One Month After Battle of King’s Landing_

The skiff approaching the shore held the banner of the Starks, despite the fact the occupants all wore armor with the Eryie’s falcon. Davos did not question the strange alliance between the two regions, but he suspected the King of the Seven Kingdoms would like further explanation for how come he had summoned the Starks and received the Arryns as well.

He waded into the water to help tug the skiff up and offered his arm for the Lady Sansa, nodding to a couple of the Dothraki who moved to help get Bran and carry him up to the chair waiting on the sand. There was a winch lift in the cavern beside the main staircase, leading up to the main level of the castle. He carefully set Lady Sansa into the sand, patting her arm as she shivered. “Not as cold as the North,” he commented.

“It has a different sort of cold,” she said, her pale blue eyes gazing at the sharp edges of the battlements. The banners whipped in the cold winds off the Narrow Sea, the same winds that had quickly brought the ship from White Harbor also bringing the chill that had settled on the island. A frown flickered over her smooth face. “The banners…they aren’t Stark.”

This was going to be an interesting summit, Davos thought, saying nothing as he nodded at the black and red dragon banners whipping from side to side. He gestured towards the stairs. “Come, let’s get out of the winds. The castle was built on hot springs and is quite warm.” 

Lady Sansa hiked up her skirts, walking in step beside him as the rest of the party landed on the shores, including Bronze Yohn Royce, who he noticed did not stray far from the Lady. She tossed her braid over her shoulder. “I heard that Cersei Lannister is dead. As is her brother, the Kingslayer.”

“That would be true.”

“Arya killed them.”

He nodded, gesturing for her to ascend. She turned to Bran, frowning as they moved into the crevice beside the staircase. “A winch lift,” he explained. He smiled. “I served Stannis Baratheon on this island for many years. Most of its secrets are known to me. We will join them in the throne room.”

“The throne room?” Sansa demanded, ascending the stairs beside him. She scowled. “I am not to have a private audience with my brother and sister?” She glanced around, carefully stepping up on the slick obsidian stairs. “Where is my brother? I thought he would greet us. It’s been a long journey and he was the one who summoned us from the North. We are rebuilding, we are needed there.”

This was going to be quite an interesting discussion, Davos thought, barely glancing sideways. He cleared his throat and folded his arms behind his back. “That is something you will need to discuss with the King.”

“He’s a King again?”

“Again, my lady, something best discussed with King Aegon.”

Sansa halted so hard that Yohn Royce bumped into her and the remaining party behind them almost tumbled off the sides, swords clattering and the banner they held fumbling. Her mouth fell open and eyes widened in shock. Her brows arched. “Aegon? He’s using the name Aegon?” She glared up at the castle and then back to the ship. A muscle tightened in her jaw. “So you know.”

“My lady, everyone knows.” Davos twitched his moustache. He really did not understand this family dynamic, but unlike the previous advisors to the current King or the former Queen, he did not consider it his business to know the true inner workings of a family. That was their business. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment to allow the lady a moment to calm herself, and released. “Shall we continue? The King is waiting.”

“Well we best not keep the King waiting then,” she said, sarcastic. She took a few more steps and cleared her throat again. “Where is Lord Tyrion, I was expecting him.”

It seemed the letter the King sent demanding his brother and sister attend to Dragonstone was missing some pertinent information. He took a few more stairs and sighed. “My Lady I regret to inform you that Lord Tyrion Lannister was executed for treason and abetting the murder of Queen Daenerys.” He tried not to look at her when he heard the strangled gasp and felt her still again. He stopped on a stair a few above her and glanced down. She looked horrified. He remembered they had been married, although he did not realize there was affection there. He gestured again. “My lady, more answers are to be had if we get to the castle.”

They finally remained silent and arrived in the main hall of the castle, where Bran and the Dothraki, and some other Knights of the Vale waited. Bran looked up with his strange vacant stare. “This place,” he announced, his eyes dropping to Sansa. “A dragon’s lair.”

That was one word, Davos believed. He gestured again. “My lady, my lord, please.”

“The letter our brother sent was cryptic,” Sansa said. Her chilled voice echoed loudly in the cold, stone halls. She did not even look at the dragons etched and molded into the walls, like many on their first visit to Dragonstone. “But I presume he wants to discuss the North’s independence.”

“He is not our brother,” Bran said.

Sansa scoffed. “Cousin, whatever.”

“It is more than that,” Davos said. He stopped outside of the great doors leading to the dragonglass throne room and nodded to the Dothraki, who stepped forwards, their hands outstretched to the knights and Royce. “You understand you will not be permitted to keep your weapons.”

“This is crazy, we will not hurt him.”

“His Grace is not worried about that.” Jon had been quite clear when he’d told Davos what he needed to happen when they arrived. All weapons would be seized before anyone was allowed entry to the castle’s rooms. Not in fear for his life, for the king said he could take care of that, but for the children. Davos did not question the command, as a father himself, and he knew that Jon Snow was entirely thinking of his children at the moment.

The doors pushed open once the weapons were secure. Davos strode through and moved to the side as the small Northern party stopped in the main entry area, in awe of the dragonglass walls, the slanted windows, and the swirling obsidian floors. Candles flickered and it looked as though the dragons in the walls were alive. Only the Knights of the Vale seemed awed, while Lady Sansa took a step forwards, impatient. “Where is my brother? We were supposed to have a private audience.”

“You are.”

They all turned as Jon slinked around from behind the triangular dragonglass throne, the black leather he wore making him seem like he was part of the stone room. He did not walk down the steps to join his family, but draped himself in the throne, crossing his legs and arms, studying them for a moment. Davos had to give it to him, he had a presence. No one seemed to even be breathing as they took in the former King in the North. “Jon,” Sansa began, moving towards him.

Jon’s glare had her stopping in her tracks. “You are in the presence of King Aegon Targaryen,” Davos announced. Sansa whipped her head from her brother to stare at him, mouth open. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arya Stark enter, going to stand beside Grey Worm and Raqho. “King of the Andals and all that…” He nodded at Jon, who seemed bored and was fiddling with a silver ring in his hand. “They call him the White Wolf, Avenger of the Dragon Queen, and…” He knew this would set off the Lady Sansa and smiled in spite of himself. “King in the North.”

“You’re still King in the North?” Sansa spat. She laughed. “And also every other kingdom? I didn’t think you wanted it. You barely wanted to be King in the North.” Her eyes brightened. “Does this mean that we have our independence?”

Davos glanced at the king. Jon twisted the silver ring around on his finger. The king proceeded to fiddle with the jewelry and when Davos wondered if he had even heard what his sister had asked, he finally spoke. “You named me King in the North, did you not? So that is what I will be.”

It was not the answer his sister wanted. Sansa rushed towards him, shouting. “I didn’t think this was how it would happen!”

The scream echoed in the hall, Grey Worm and Raqho jumping in front of the steps to the throne, arakh and spear aloft in protection of the king. She took a step backwards, looking up at her brother. “I am your sister! I would not hurt you!”

The king stood from the throne, the black leather doublet he wore whispering against the stone, fluttering slightly around his knees as he took each step one by one, his dark eyes fixed on his sibling. Arya moved from her position in the shadows, closer to the confrontation. “My sister,” Jon whispered. It sounded like a shout in the silence. He chuckled. “My sister, who swore an oath before the hearttree.” He stopped in front of her, almost toe to toe and despite being taller than her brother, Sansa hung her head in shame. He growled. “I may have been a bastard and not privy to the lessons you received, but I remember what father taught us of the Old Gods. You were always an astute learner.” He smiled, wicked. “Or did you only listen to your lady mother and not our father? You broke a sacred oath.” 

Bran spoke, barely acknowledging his sister. “You have invoked the anger of the gods.”

The anger of a dragon, Davos wanted to say, darting between the two siblings. “You broke a sacred oath.” He stepped to her again. “You told Tyrion Lannister. You wanted to see me king, did you not?” Sansa nodded weakly. He grinned. No happiness or mirth behind the smile, this was a wolf about to take its prey. “Well I am king now.”

Sansa cried, reaching her hands to cup her face. “I am so sorry Jon. I had no idea…”

“You killed Daenerys.”

“I didn’t! I didn’t know they would do that!”

He spun around, arms behind his back, and his fists clenched. “You didn’t know?” he laughed. “You hated her from the moment she stepped foot in the yard at Winterfell. You did not even curtsey to her like you did your precious Cersei Lannister when we were children! You did not welcome her and she lost everything for our cause!” He dropped his arms to his sides. “She died.”

Davos wasn’t sure when Sansa had learned about the queen’s death, but she merely hung her head farther. Bran continued to say nothing, simply looking at his brother with eyes of glass. “I didn’t know,” Sansa whispered.

“Jon,” Arya finally said. She stepped towards them. “Please…she’s sorry.”

Jon glared at his sister. “I don’t think she is. I don’t think she really knows what she did.” He reached, his finger tilting Sansa’s face up. He smiled sympathetically, but there was nothing sympathetic in his eyes. “You told Tyrion. Tyrion told Varys. Varys poisoned her and she died.” Sansa closed her eyes, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. He chuckled. “Do you know what Tears of Lys does, Sansa?”

“Tears of Lys,” Arya whispered, her eyes flashing. “That…gods.”

“I haven’t heard of Tears of Lys,” she whispered.

“It eats you from the inside. She was worried about it, you see, but somehow he got them to her. You bleed from within, your blood thinning to water. It smells sweet, like those lemon cakes you love so much.” Jon folded his arms behind him again. He brightened. “Would you like to see just what your decision did?” 

“You told me,” Sansa exclaimed. She grasped at something, anything. “You told us about your real parents and your claim…”

“And I swore you before the hearttree!” Jon laughed. “If I thought you would break a sacred oath I never would have told you!” His voice dropped. “She was right. She was right and I betrayed her and I have to live with that for the rest of my life, all because my sister decided an oath before the gods did not matter compared to her ambition.”

He gestured to the door and Raqho nodded. The Dothraki lord went to the side door and after a moment, entered with one of the wet nurses, each one holding a bundle. Davos saw Sansa’s frown, but she did not seem to truly understand until Jon’s face went from cold to warm, smiling as he took one of the bundles from the Dothraki. Arya reached and took the other awkwardly, coming to stand beside him. 

It took a moment and when Sansa understood, her face screwed up and she screamed in horror, hands going to the sides of her face. She sobbed, almost falling to her knees, but Royce rushed to her side, holding her up. Bran smiled. “Congratulations brother.”

Jon ignored the comment. “You see Sansa, when you broke the oath, you set in motion events that turned my children motherless.” He glanced at her, ignoring her cries. Royce looked sick too. “She died giving birth to them. If not for the quick thinking of the Dothraki they might have died too.” He patted the back of the infant in his arms. “This is Lyella. My son is Daeron.”

The hall filled with Sansa’s cries and muttered apologies. “I didn’t know,” she cried, over and over again. 

“And if you did you still would have done it?” Jon laughed. “You would have done it if she was with child or not. The thing is Sansa, you didn’t think. Arya said you were the smartest one she knew. You can play the game of thrones but you can’t play with people’s hearts. You wouldn’t understand.” He paused. “You misjudged. So did I. Dany told me not to say anything, you weren’t the girl I knew. I saw that at Castle Black. I saw a broken woman and I wanted my sister. My family. I thought I could take back Winterfell for you and you didn’t tell me about the Vale. You kept things from me even then.”

Sansa stammered, but Jon continued. “And I brought Dany north and she lost her friends, her loved ones, her armies, and her children. You betrayed that by getting her killed.” He laughed, turning away from her and still clutching his child. “I betrayed that.”  
They stood in silence for a long time. Davos stared at the little bundles in the arms of their father and aunt. Poor things. They were simply innocents in this battle between houses and dynasties and power. He took a few steps towards the tortured family in the center of the hall. “Jon,” he whispered. 

It seemed to do its trick, breaking Jon out of his thoughts. He looked over at his brother. “What do you have to say to any of this?” He frowned. “Three-Eyed Raven, you call yourself now?”

“The things we do for love.”

It was all Bran said, but it seemed to do whatever he intended, because Jon turned away and took his children, ordering them to their rooms. Sansa continued to cry and Arya looked like she was going to be sick. Davos followed the king from the hall, his hand going to his shoulder. “Your Grace, should you not go with them?”

“They need to feed,” Jon said, soft. He clutched his daughter as Arya followed with the boy. “I’m going to take them to the nurse and then maybe I”ll deal with her.”

Davos sighed, watching the broken man walk away. He glanced at Arya. “Perhaps you should speak with your sister.”

Arya nodded. “Yes.” She sighed hard. “I thought she knew what she was doing, Ser Davos. I guess she played me as well.”

~/~/~/~/~

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk to her right now?”

Arya watched her brother—cousin—knelt before the large tub of warm water, using one hand to hold up his son’s head and the other to carefully clean his tiny feet and hands. She had left him for some time after the terrible confrontation in the dragonglass hall and wandered around, trying to find the courage and words to approach her sister. In the end, she’d just gone to find Jon in the nursery, where she’d been surprised to find him with his tunic sleeves rolled to his elbows, on his knees in front of the bath, washing his children.

Daeron cried as Jon carefully poured a cup of water over his head, leaning further into the tub to coo at him. Daeron’s face screwed up and he sobbed, splashing his hands in the water. She smiled. “He doesn’t like baths anymore than I did when I was a kid.”

“You’re still a kid.”

Not after all I’ve done and seen, she thought, crossing her arms. She leaned against the stand holding the various things babies needed, nappies and soaps and blankets and other cloths. She looked into the cradle where Lyella wiggled, wrapped up in a warm blanket and a cap over her head. She leaned her hand in and lightly covered her niece’s stomach. “She’s so pretty. I remember when Rickon was born. I thought he was so ugly looking. Like a turnip.”

He chuckled. “You all looked like turnips.” He carefully lifted Daeron from the bath, bundling the babe up in a thick fur. The baby was not happy about the sudden chill on his wet skin and began to cry. Arya watched, fascinated, as her big brother who she did not think of as truly affectionate, beyond a hug and smile here and there, cuddled the baby and cooed to him, truly enamored.

The anger and pain in her brother was still there, just not as raw and on display as it had been in the ruined dungeons of the Red Keep. She crossed her arms over her chest, dropping her eyes to the floor. “Jon…this isn’t who you are. I will keep saying it until the day the God of Death decides it’s my day. You’re upset, I understand, but please…do not do this. Do not destroy our family.”

He buried his face into the fur, wrapping his arms tight around his child. He pulled his face away after a moment, gray eyes dark. “My family is destroyed, Arya. My children have no mother. My…my Dany is gone.” 

The Targaryens always danced between madness and greatness, the saying went. Arya had heard it. She didn’t think much for those types of things, but Jon was dancing on the line. Just like the Dragon Queen had before him. She wasn’t sure what part of Jon was speaking to her now. The Stark or the Targaryen. “I know she’s gone and I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” He laughed. “You used her. You said as much. You didn’t trust me.”

And she would regret that for the rest of her life. She closed her eyes tight. Tears had no place here so she would not cry. “I’m so sorry.” I should have trusted him. I should have trusted her. “There’s nothing I can do to fix it.”

“So leave me alone then.” 

“Jon please…don’t be like this. Don’t turn towards…”

“Towards what?” he exclaimed. He laughed, finally setting the baby into the cradle. He straightened up and she realized that with his black leather breeches and black tunic and black boots, he wore a red scarf around his neck, tucked under the laces of the tunic’s neck. No gray or white or Stark sigils. She frowned. He laughed again. “You don’t want me to be a Targaryen, is that it? Well too bad Arya. For once I’m finally being listened to and for once I don’t want to worry about honor.” He closed his eyes. “Honor has done nothing but bring me pain.”

Honor killed our father. Honor killed his queen. She understood. “Please,” she whispered. “Just remember Jon. You may have Targaryen blood, but you grew up a Stark.”

“And she grew up in nothing,” he whispered. He blinked. “And she could have had everything. She would have had everything. She would have been good, if you had only seen beyond your prejudice.” He knelt in front of the cradle again, humming and fussing over the babies.

She continued to watch, keeping to the shadows as her brother seemed to forget she was there, placing the children on the small bed in the room and stretched out beside them, his arm going over them and his gaze filled with love. She did not want to disturb whatever thoughts were going on in his mind, so she slipped carefully from the room and closed the door with a soft click. 

The rooms where they had placed Bran and Sansa were on a floor beneath, in a wing that was kept under guard. Jon had been clear that they were free to move about the castle, but were not allowed entry to the wing where he kept the children. Arya nodded at the Unsullied as she slipped by them and to Sansa’s room, opening the door without knocking and going in to find her sister standing on one of the balconies, bundled in a thick navy and gray cloak. “Sansa,” she greeted.

Her sister didn’t turn. Arya went to stand beside her and placed her hands on the stone wall, gazing over the Narrow Sea. Somewhere across there was Essos. “You killed Cersei,” Sansa whispered. She chuckled. “I wish I was there to see it, but…”

“She was bitter to the end.” 

“She taught me many things.”

Arya nodded. She had learned many things as well from the people she had encountered since that terrible day when Father took them from Winterfell to the capitol. She cleared her throat. “I avenged our family. Everyone who did anything to them…they’re all dead.”

“And we survived.”

“The pack survives.”

“He hates me.” Sansa did not look at her. Her fingers gripped the railing of the balcony. They were cold and brittle looking. Her face flushed pink from the wind and cold. A tear trickled down her cheek. “He will never forgive me. The pack is broken.”

“Do you expect him to forgive you? You broke a sacred oath.” The Northern houses would not like that if they ever found out. Save for the Manderlys, who followed the Seven, the North was deeply invested in the old gods. The gods of their father and of the First Men and Sansa betrayed them. Arya did not consider herself particularly religious, to her the only god was Death, but she knew Jon was heavily invested and this was bound to keep him from trusting her ever again. 

Sansa sobbed. “I knew he loved her, but…men are easily manipulated by love. I just thought it was that.”

“Because that was what you experienced.” It was sad. Arya sighed. “I will admit, I did not believe it myself. She was beautiful and exotic but…but Jon never wanted to father bastards. He went to the Wall because he thought his place in the world prevented him from a family and he loved her.” She frowned. “He lay with her and had children with her outside of marriage vows, yet the man I see with those children is not ashamed of them or their birth. He is…he is something else.” Jon was a father.

Her sister snorted. “His children will have no claim.”

“Gods I want to smack you!” Arya was sick of it. She spun on her, like she had when she was a child, glaring at her. “You’re still stuck in the world with Septa Mordane, thinking embroidery and flowers and princes are the only thing that matters. Sansa, no one cares about claims and titles and thrones right now but you!”

“Because that is what we are owed!”

“Owed?” Arya laughed. “I agree, we are owed the North, but Jon is the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Not six, but seven. If that’s what he wants…we need to support him. He is our family.”

Sansa squinted and Arya thought in that moment she looked like their mother, scowling and enraged. The same look she used to give Jon Snow when Father wasn’t around, reminding him of his place. “You didn’t trust her either. You didn’t want Daenerys to be queen anymore than I did.”

“And I made a mistake. We should have trusted him. He bent the knee to her for a reason, not because he was in love, but because he saw something in her we just ignored.” Because we thought it was all about his love. Maybe it was, but Arya was ashamed. She wished she could go back and change how she had treated the woman with the pretty braids and bright smile. 

“I didn’t expect her to die.”

“Well then maybe you aren’t as good at this game as you think you are.” Arya leaned on the rampart wall. She wondered where the dragon had gone. “He loved her. He loved her so much that when she died…the Jon Snow we knew as children died too.” He had died once before. She’d managed to get that information out of some of the people who knew what occurred at the Wall. The Red Woman brought him back. 

“I had no idea…I should have seen it.” Sansa continued to stare straight ahead. “He was beating Ramsay to death. I’ve never seen anyone use their fists like that. Blood and bone…he would have kept doing it until there was nothing left. Angrier than I’ve ever seen anyone be before and by that time I had seen a lot of horrible things.”

Sansa may have seen that side of him then, but Arya remembered something else. “Do you remember when we were children and I cut my braids?”

“Mother was furious at you.”

Her hair hadn’t grown in even for weeks afterward. She smiled. “There was this boy, one of the sons of the smiths…he laughed at me. Said I looked like a boy in a dress and I would never be a knight or a warrior, when I said I wanted to be like Visenya. He pushed me in the mud and I scraped my arm.” Looking back, it was possible that boy had just liked her and didn’t know how to deal with it. She smiled at the memory. 

“I don’t remember that part.”

“You wouldn’t, you were with your sewing.” She sighed. “Father got angry at Jon when he saw him the next day. His knuckles were torn and bleeding. He told him to control his anger. I didn’t know Jon Snow could ever get angry. I didn’t know what happened until the smith’s son showed up and had a broken arm and cuts on his face and apologized to me through cracked teeth.” Jon had protected her. “Our sweet, quiet bastard of a brother had that darkness inside of him.” He always had it, she supposed.

Sansa closed her eyes. “I don’t know how to forgive myself.”

“You shouldn’t. We’re all guilty of horrors here.”

She looked down at her. “He killed Tyrion. All Tyrion ever did was advise her.”

“And Tyrion tried to get me to kill him.” She stared at her sister, trying to see if there was something else there, but she was pleased to see Sansa was as surprised as her. She frowned. “And he wants to kill you.”

She cried, strangled. “What?”

“He’s in grief. He won’t do it.” I don’t think he won’t. She kept her mouth closed on that matter, allowing Sansa to process it. She placed her hand on the hilt of Needle, clutching it, and thinking of when Jon gave it to her. They were such children then. 

The woman beside her cried again, another sob. “He’s going to destroy he world for her, isn’t he?”

“Not just for her, Sansa.” Or did Sansa not see the man who had stood before her, with his battle weary hands clutching the soft, small child in them, holding the baby like glass. She scowled. “For his children.”

It didn’t register. Sansa continued to speak. Scheme, Arya thought, brows slamming together in anger. “He will kill us both if we aren’t careful.”

“Well then perhaps it is what we deserve.”

“I can’t let that happen.” Sansa finally turned to face her. Arya realized that she had embroidered a sequined wolf on the top of her bodice. She was in survival mode. The lone wolf trying to find its next meal, at the expense of the others. “I can’t allow the North to be ruled by a dragon again. I am doing this for our people.”

Our people? Arya could not reconcile this woman with the one she had seen after all this time. She had the same single-minded focus on the North as she once had in marrying a prince and becoming a queen. “Are you doing it for the people or are you doing it because Jon would be King over the North and not you?”

Sansa glared, blue eyes staring to gray. Arya was reminded of looking into the Night King just then. Nothing behind them but power and cold. “I’m doing this for the North. For our family. To protect our family.”

Arya pushed away from the wall, disgusted. “Jon’s our family.”

“Jon is not acting like the king we need him to be.” Sansa looked over at her, whispering. “The lords named him king over me because he’s a man. It’s always men. They would name me queen, I know they would, if they know what he’s become. If they know he’s a dragon and not a wolf.”

That was treason. “I’m going to pretend you aren’t saying these things right now,” Arya whispered. She shook her head. “I believed you once before, believed your plotting and scheming. We killed LIttlefinger together.”

“He was a threat to the family.”

“And Daenerys was?” Arya laughed. “She was his family. She’s part of our family now, she had children with him.”

“And she’s dead.” Sansa’s blue eyes were dead. Unfeeling and unemotional. “She’s dead and I’m sorry for that, but we cannot let that derail our focus.”

“You don’t care she was pregnant, do you?” It was like seeing someone else. Seeing a monster in place of her sister. Arya was sick. Her stomach started to hurt, realizing what her sister was saying. “You would have saw to it anyway. Anything for a crown…you know who also didn’t care about children?” Sansa blinked, saying nothing. Arya scowled and growled. “The Lannisters. They didn’t care when they stabbed Robb and Mother and Robb’s wife. They wanted to see to the end of the Starks. We survived and between you and me, I don’t fancy on having children and you don’t either. Bran probably can’t have children, so we are the true last of the Starks.” She shook her head, smiling. “Except for Jon. He has the next line of Starks and if you do anything to them, I will kill you.”

It came out before she realized she was even saying it. Sansa’s eyes widened in surprise, but she remained quiet. She looked at the water again. Remained stubborn and dug in her heels. “Jon is a threat right now.”

Oh gods. Arya shook her head. “You know nothing of threats to our family.”

“What do you mean?”

She had had enough and stormed away, shouting over her shoulder. “Look in the mirror!”

~/~/~/~/~

“They look like Queen.”

“They do,” Jon agreed, holding his daughter. He had offered Grey Worm a chance to hold Daeron, but the warrior declined and merely studied the expression on the babe’s face, Daeron content with a belly full of milk and a warm fur wrapped around him as he basked in the warm glow of the hearth. 

Grey Worm stood by the fire, staring into it. They were in the room of the Painted Table. He kept his arms folded behind him and still wore the light boiled leather armor of the Unsullied, with the three-headed dragon circle on the center of the breastplate. “You miss Queen?”

Only every waking moment, Jon thought, his finger clutched in his daughter’s strong grip. He nodded. “Yes. Terribly.”

“It is terrible.” Grey Worm’s Common Tongue had surprised Jon when he first heard him speak it, not long after Dany’s death. Of course he understood it, but the fluency with which he had been hiding was quite useful. Everyone thought he was practically mute. He continued to watch the flames lick at the back of the massive hearth. “Missandei dead. Queen dead.” He glanced over. “Now what?”

They were two men who loved women who were dead now. Jon set his daughter on the fur before the fire, sliding off the chair to sit with the children. He could not believe how much older they were getting. It had been near two months now. Two months since his Dany had gone. Since something inside of him snapped and he had realized just what had lurked beneath the surface. “We make sure everyone who did this to us pays,” he whispered. 

“Drogon gone.”

The connection Jon had once had with the dragon was severed. He felt it one evening, when he’d been sitting with the children in their nursery. He’d seen Drogon fly away from the top of the roof near the nursery, where he often sat, and when Jon had tried to reach for him, the connection was gone. It was about a month ago, before he summoned his brother and sister to Dragonstone. 

He wasn’t sure what to make of the connection’s end, but he assumed it was time for Drogon to move on. He’d done his duty and brought fire and blood onto the city and destroyed the throne. His mother’s work was over and Jon was glad that he would likely go find some peace. At least one of them would. “He went East,” he murmured.

“I must go now.”

Jon nodded and waited for Grey Worm to leave before he returned his attention to the babies. He stretched out on his stomach in front of them, holding one of their feet in each hand, smiling when they tried to grab at his nose. They were so curious. He nodded to the Painted Table next to him. “Your ancestor ruled the Seven Kingdoms from here. You are the blood of the dragon.”

He wasn’t sure if he wanted them in this world. They needed to be protected at all costs. He thought about going North, when he was finished with what needed to be done. He looked up at a sound in the entryway. Davos entered. “Your Grace.” He smiled down at the children and nodded to them. “Your Graces, I should say.”

“Have a seat Ser Davos.” Jon rolled back onto his heels and pushed up to his feet. He picked up one twin at a time and set them in the basket on the Painted Table, just over the Iron Islands. He picked up a parchment and handed it to him. “Yara Greyjoy has accepted my summons and will be here soon.”

“And the North?”

“Still waiting, but most of them are heeding the call.” Anyone who didn’t would be dealt with appropriately. Jon already had a scheduled visit to make to Deepwood Motte and take Lord Glover’s head for abandoning his liege lord during the Battle of the Dawn. 

“You should get some rest.” 

“I don’t sleep anymore.” Maybe one or two hours at the most. It was unnecessary.

Davos seemed to agree, chuckling. “You didn’t sleep much before.” He paused and looked at the basket with the twins. “You know I lost my son, Tyrion killed him with wildfire, in the Battle of the Blackwater.” He blew out a hard breath. “I was so angry. Wanted to kill every last fucker in King’s Landing who had a thing to do with it. Rip the head off of the Imp.” He looked into the fire. “And the Red Woman…she burned that sweet child for no reason. Betrayed by her parents, the ones who were supposed to protect her, and for nothing. I wanted to kill her too. Tear her from limb to limp and burn her alive.”

The revenge Davos wanted made sense to him. He was unsure why it seemed like it was a problem. Jon shrugged. “And?”

“And I didn’t,” Davos said quietly. He looked up from the flames. “I realized it would not bring back my son. Would not bring back Shireen. They were gone and anything I did to their murderers would not fill the holes they left in my heart. If anything it would dishonor them. Stain their memories.” He reached over and gripped at his wrist. Jon was surprised, jumping slightly at the moment, but he didn’t do anything as Davos gripped it hard, his eyes wide and earnest. “I did not know Her Grace the way you did. None of us did, but I can say she was nothing at all like I expected. She was better.” 

She was better. She was better than all of us and I squandered that. Jon ignored the achy feeling in his gut. He nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “She was good.”

“She was a good and kind woman who fought injustice with justice.” He chuckled. “I teased you once about looking at her good heart, but it was true. You loved her not for her looks as most men love women, but because she was your counterpart in every way. She spoke to the good in you. The man in you.” Davos sighed. “And regardless of your parentage and family and everything, you both loved each other enough to create two beautiful children. Two children who need their father to love and raise them. Who will not understand a world made of ash.”

My children need their mother, he thought, his eyes glassing over. He closed them and fell the tears trickle out of the corners of his eyes. He reached his hand to press against the sockets, wanting to push the tears back in. It would do him no good to cry over her. I loved her so much and I pushed her away. “It’s my fault,” he managed to get out through his constricting throat. 

“It is not your fault. Nothing you say to yourself will change what happened and it will not bring back their mother. It will not do anything to make your guilt fade away,” Davos said. He placed his hands on his shoulders. Jon felt like he was being nailed to the floor. He felt heavy and tired all of a sudden. “You are hurt and guilty and angry and you are trying to make it go away by burning and killing everyone in your path.” 

Because that’s what she would do, he thought idly. Because it was what needed to be done to make them all go away. Everyone who had anything to do with her death and with the end of his family. Although something else in his head said no that wasn’t it. IT sounded like of like Ned Stark. The Ned Stark voice told him he had to let go. To understand and move on. He didn’t like that voice right now. He tried to make it go away. “They deserve it,” he whispered, feeble.

“Tell me Jon, would the Dany you loved what this for you? Would she want you to feel so miserable you can’t sleep or eat? Would want you to kill your kin?” 

Kinslayer, he thought, was the worst thing a person could become. He’d done it though. He’d effectively killed Dany. He thought of her smile. The light touch of her fingers on the scars over his face and chest. The way she laughed when he tickled her sides and squealed when he blew kisses on her stomach. The steel in her voice when she spoke of taking back her throne and avenging her family. Sadness and pain at the thought of people out there hurting as a result of Cersei’s rule. His beautiful Daenerys, he thought, lying on that pyre because of him. 

He once again hoped Drogon took her somewhere safe. Somewhere beautiful and quiet, where she could rest easy for eternity. He felt his shoulders slump forward and his head drop to his hands. Davos reached for him again, keeping him from falling straight onto the floor. “You need to feel her in your heart, son. Let go.”

And it came out. He wasn’t sure how or why or what prompted it, but something released inside of his heart and he fell against Davos, his shoulders wracked with sobs. Even as a child he had been unable to show his true emotions. There was no one there to make him feel better when Robb bested him in training or when he’d had a pox. No one to cheer him up when his favorite barn cat died or when the horse he liked to ride had to be killed for breaking its leg. 

This was the first time he thought he could feel. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he managed to get out, his breath coming in hitches. He felt dazed. He couldn’t breathe or see or think. He shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. He hadn’t cut it in months. He hadn’t bothered to keep his beard kept either and he probably resembled Tormund now. “I never should have brought her North. I should never have met her.”

“You did son. You have children with her. You need to be strong for them. Live for them.”

He looked up, blinking through the tears, his eyes scratchy. “Is this why I returned,” he wondered, looking into the fire. He woke on that table gasping for breath, his mind blank and unable to remember even his name. The Red Woman said he came back for a reason. The Lord of Light had a purpose. Was this is purpose? He didn’t know what it was for, he’d wanted to just find somewhere to go after, but then Sansa had arrived. Given him a purpose. Then the Night King and Bran and…and Dany…he closed his eyes again. “Did I come back just to live a life of nothing?”

“You don’t have a life of nothing, Jon Snow.” Davos stood and reached into the basket, removing one of his children and then the other, placing them in his arms. He patted their heads in turn. “You have them. She lives in them. Be the father they need, the one you were meant to be. Maybe that is why you came back.”

Maybe I came back to break the wheel, he thought, mind racing. He thought of the North. He’d sent ravens to all the lords and ladies there, bringing them back to Winterfell to be dealt with accordingly for what had occurred during the Battle of the Dawn. Some of the houses were now extinct and had to be handled as well. Bear Island, Karhold, and Last Hearth needed new families. He thought of Jorah Mormont, dead in his queen’s arms. They had to make it all count for something. “Call a council,” he whispered.

If he was the King of the Seven Kingdoms, he could do that, he thought. He looked over at Davos, who studied him with slight confusion. He nodded and repeated his statement. “A Great Council,” he clarified. He remembered Maester Luwin telling Robb about them. As the bastard he sat in the corner, because Ned Stark wanted him to learn, but he was not really allowed to participate. He had to laugh at that, Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark’s son not allowed to participate in learning. What would Rhaegar likely say to that, he thought with a smile, since it seemed the Dragon Prince only ever liked books. 

Davos frowned. “Your Grace I believe those must be held at the Citadel.”

“This one will be held at King’s Landing. Every single lord and lady, all the remaining Lords Paramount, go to King’s Landing and meet. They have four weeks.” It was a new day. He looked at his children, sleeping peacefully. “I will go North soon with my siblings and we will handle the lords there. No need having any make the trip before I cut their heads.”

Davos arched an eyebrow. “Whose head will you be cutting off, Your Grace?”

“Lord Glover for a start.” 

Davos chuckled and nodded. “Yes Your Grace. Anything else?”

He shook his head, clutching at his twins. “No, thank you. Just some peace.” 

That was all he wanted at this point. Davos nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Jon stared into the flames for the rest of the night. Sometimes he thought maybe she was with him, stretched out on her side on the table behind him, flicking with the absent curl near his left ear that never seemed to watch to stay tied back and whispering to him how happy she was. 

She smiled and her breath whispered over his skin. “Be there for me,” she whispered. The same words she said in the throne room. He closed his eyes, hearing it again in his mind. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he clung to it like a lifeline. 

_Be there for me, Jon. I’ll see you soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next installment may be a bit later. If you read a bit between the lines you'll note that Jon's connection to Drogon was lost. Hmmm....wonder why....? Anyways, writing is funny like that and I intended Drogon to stick around a bit longer so I need to fix my outline for a scene he had in the next chapter that won't be there anymore. Oh well. 
> 
> Next time: Jon speaks with Sansa and Bran about why he brought them South. Jon returns to the North to call the Northerners to heel, maybe kills a few people while he’s at it. The Great Council is surprised at their new king’s proclamations.
> 
> ETA: Adding a few extra scenes before they head north. Might explain more of what Jon is up to.


	5. when sorrows come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon explains to Sansa and Bran why he brought them south; a foiled assassination plot leads Jon to confront Sansa; the Northern lords deal with their new king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I moved up a couple of things set to occur later to this part of the fic because writing is weird and it went like that as I started writing today's chapter. 
> 
> FYI, some complained Jon wasn't "dark" enough. Maybe this will satisfy your bloodlust. 
> 
> TW: torture elements (physical and psychological) (aka Jon ain't takin' shit)

Davos Seaworth may claim to know all the secrets Dragonstone had to offer, as a reformed smuggler, but Jon had learned how to keep to the shadows of the black obsidian and swirling Valyrian stone, following the warm walls from the hot springs bubbling in the caverns below. He felt something calling to him from deep inside of the castle’s never-ending maze of corridors and sometimes found himself dragging his fingers down the walls in the middle of the night, trying to find whatever it was that was looking for him as much as he was looking for it. 

He wondered if he was truly going mad, sitting there at night and staring into the fire, unable to sleep or eat, his mind roiling with decisions to be made, research to be done, and memories and past regrets. If he was hearing things in the walls of Dragonstone, it was just another thing to add to the litany of issues he faced. There was also the fact that he still saw his dead lover and mother of his children, whispering to him in the night and draping herself in and out of his bed, as though she had never left. 

The night was black, save for the full moon, so blinding it washed out the sight of the stars. He watched as Arya helped Bran in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly at what had become of his younger brother. When he’d said goodbye, Bran was but a boy, asleep to the world around him, and he could hardly wish him farewell before Catelyn had glared him from the room. And when he returned, Bran could have been taller than him, the Lord of Winterfell, and Ned Stark’s remaining heir. Instead he had something else in his place. Three-Eyed Raven, he mused. 

He didn’t know Bran anymore. Didn’t know Sansa, he had learned that in the most painful way possible. Hardly even knew Arya, but he could understand her somewhat. She was trying to get him to speak of Dany, to try to get to know the woman she’d written off with barely a word. So much for idolizing Visenya, when Visenya’s descendant was right in front of her, with dragons and everything. All he knew was he could trust his little sister’s loyalty to his children. Arya had shown she would die for them and he could trust that.

He moved a little closer to them, watching. Sansa was the first to speak, holding up one of the torches and looking around, the quavering in her voice betraying her nerves. “Why are we really here Arya? What is this about?”

“Jon wants to speak to us, so we will follow his instruction,” Bran said. He glanced at Sansa. “Are you scared, sister?”

“No!”

“All Jon said was he wanted me to bring you down here when the moon was in the center of the sky.” It was so he could see their faces in entirety. He let them stand around a little longer, Sansa muttering about how they could have just met at the castle. No, he thought, because then I couldn’t do what I’m about to do. He smiled and reached over to the powder he’d found in one of his wanderings, set in a series of narrow ditches near the massive stone dragonheads at the base of the stairs leading to the castle.

He flicked the two flint pieces together, sparking the powder, which instantly went up, fire exploding through the channel and into the mouths of the massive dragons. It did what it was supposed to, shocking Sansa and alerting them to his presence. He smiled at them, appearing from behind one of the dragons, stepping down to the beach. “Brother, Sisters.”

“You’re lurking like Arya,” Sansa said.

Arya frowned. “I don’t do that!”

“I don’t know quite who to trust, so lurking is necessary.” He stood between the dragonheads, his feet on the final step, while they stood in the sand before him. He kept his hands folded behind his back. “I called you here because even in my castle there are still little birds.” Little falcons, scurrying about ready to report any news they thought was important to the woman who may as well be Lady of the Vale. He was irritated beyond belief at their presence when he had not ordered it. 

Bran nodded his head knowingly. “You’re doing the best you can with what you have.”

At the same time, Sansa balked at his words. “Your castle? Since when did Dragonstone become your castle?”

Since I became the Prince of Dragonstone, he thought, still irritated “Stop interrupting me,” he said. He glanced at Bran. “What do I have Bran?”

“Fire and blood.”

He smirked. Yes, he had fire and blood. Except the fire had flown off to the East, probably never to be seen again. Drogon was no longer connected to him and there were no more dragons. Because of him, he thought darkly. He glared at Sansa, who was squinting at him in the glowing fire and moonlight. “Why are we here?” she asked. She took a deep breath, slowly letting it out and pulling her cloak tighter around her. “You summoned us here, you know Starks don’t fare well in the South…we left Ser Brienne as the castellan at Winterfell, but we really need to get back. We’re trying to rebuild.”

Ser Brienne as castellan? He frowned. “Why not one of the vassals?” Nevermind, he didn’t care. He waved his hand when Sansa opened her mouth to try to explain. He walked from the dragons and to the water’s edge, watching the black sea lick at the toes of his boots. He looked out. Somewhere on the other side was Essos. He would take the children there one day. See where their mother grew up. He sighed. “I summoned Sansa and somehow got Bran and the Knights of the Vale as well.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you expect a war, Sansa?”

Arya shrugged and looked at her sister’s surprised look. “He has a point. Why did you bring them? What did you expect when you came? Jon may be our cousin now, but he’s still Jon.” 

I’m not still Jon, but he said nothing. Sansa shifted on her feet. Even Bran was looking at her curiously. She swallowed visibly. “They are here for my protection. They have protected me since Littlefinger took me to the Eyrie.” 

“Protection?” He turned. That really irritated him. He frowned. “I thought I was your brother. Not your cousin, not your half-brother, but your brother.” It didn’t matter any longer. 

Sansa closed her eyes. “Lord Royce insisted. We needed protection to bring us to White Harbor and on the ship. I brought Bran because if you called me here, we all need to be here. To discuss a way forward for the North.” She smiled briefly. “I understand you called us here now because…because of the babies.” The way she said ‘babies’ was slightly hushed. He frowned briefly. She looked at the sand. “And now that we are here…are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about?” 

“The North,” she stressed.

The North, always the fucking North. He took a deep breath and slowly released it. At the same time, he pressed is left thumb deep into his right palm, using it as a bit of a technique to keep him calm. So he wouldn’t lose his mind on his siblings who wanted to talk about the North when he was trying to hold the entire Seven Kingdoms together with nothing but the memory of a dead woman and his true parentage. He looked at Sansa, who was still staring at the sand. 

He cleared his throat. “Did you know that Dany was sold to her first husband, like a horse?” he asked. All of them looked up; well, Bran just gazed vacantly towards them. Of course he probably knew. Jon was tired of Sansa’s attitude towards even the memory of his…well he wished she was his wife. His Dany. He held his pain back; the notion of speaking of her threatened to bowl him over. “She took over his khalasar when he died. She was raped. She had a stillborn son. She lost friends. She was defiled. She had to beg and cry and scrape to get what she had.” He took a deep breath, whispering. “And we had each other, but she didn’t even have her brother.”

“He was not a dragon,” Bran said.

“No, he was not.” From why Dany had said of Viserys, he was damaged and weak and maybe in another life he would have been a good brother, but he was far gone into the Targaryen madness by the time he died she didn’t even know who he was. He kept Sansa’s eyes on his. “She lost so much and she came out strong and with her heart full. If you had opened your eyes sister, long enough to see beyond your…need for power or whatever it was that had you hating her on first sight, maybe you could have found a common ground.”

And maybe instead of demanding the North from the moment you spoke to her first, you would have it now, Jon thought. He wondered if he hadn’t pushed hera way like he had, if he hadn’t been so confused and alone in his head after finding out about his bloodline…perhaps he would have united their claims. The North would be free through him. He closed his eyes. 

Sansa chuckled. “Oh Jon…she loved you, I understand, but you loved her too. You bent the knee and you loved her. How could we know if you truly had the North’s interest at heart when you did that?”

He whipped his head up. “I convinced her to join our fight. To save the North!”

“Tell me, who manipulated whom,” Bran whispered. The words had Sansa shooting him a look, a shiver shooting visibly through her. 

Whatever it was Bran said that resonated with Sansa, it had her cowed back slightly. “Why am I here?” she asked.

“We will go north soon. I want to ensure I have everyone’s full support.”

Arya, who had quietly stood beside him, turned to him. “For what?”

His lips twitched, gray eyes meeting Sansa’s wintery blue ones. Both chips of ice, of different shades. “The Northern lords made me King in the North. I bent the knee to Daenerys and now without her as our Queen, I remain King in the North as well as King of the Seven Kingdoms.” For now, he idly thought. He looked at each one in turn. His eyes lingered on Sansa’s last. She stared abck, unmoving. “I expect my family’s full support. Even from you, Sansa. I won’t deal with the games anymore. I’m tired.” He took a few steps towards her and looked down at her feet. She followed his look and then met his gaze again. He smiled briefly. “You are standing where Lord Varys stood when I burned him.”

The tiny sound in her throat gave him a perverse sort of satisfaction at frightening her. Gods, what had he become? He smiled again. “Tyrion is dead too,” he whispered, leaning in to her ear, so Arya could only guess at what he was saying. Bran probably could hear. Jon wasn’t sure how it all worked. “Father would be ashamed.”

He could hear the hitch in her throat, see the shining tears in her eyes, but he was unmoved. For all he knew, it was another game. He stepped away from them and returned to the edge of the water. “We leave soon, go pack.” He let them go to the winch lift, leaving him to walk slowly down the beach in the dark. Part of him wanted to go to the caves, where he’d shown Dany the drawings of the Children of the Forest. He wanted to sit near the fiery dragons at the base of the stairs and main gate and stare at the water. 

Instead, he found a giant hunk of stone, climbing up on it and sitting atop, his hands between his knees, looking out at the glassy sheen of the Narrow Sea, the moon reflecting off the waves, brightening the bay like fire. He longed for her, wished they had acted sooner. “I miss you,” he whispered.

As light as a feather, her lips brushed across his cheek. He could feel her hands on his hsoulders as she rose above him, nestling close, her hips bumping against his back. Her arms looped around his neck and she leaned over, her teeth nibbling at his earlobe. He smiled and she breathed into his ear, tickling slightly. _She’s not the same person, you know that…I told you.”_

His eyes closed tight, regret filling him. “I’m sorry.”

_I’m with you always, my love. I’ll see you soon._

And she fluttered away. Jon could swear he still felt her hands on his shoulders. Could still smell her scent on the salty breeze. I’m losing it, he laughed, until he slumped down from the stone to the sand, still laughing, because otherwise he knew he’d cry.

~/~/~/~/~

_Issa dārys!_

Jon turned on his heel, about to open his mouth to tell Grey Worm not to refer to him as his King and instead as Jon, but the words disappeared at the sight of Grey Worm’s horrified face. “What happened?” he demanded, hurrying with him down the corridors. 

Grey Worm merely gestured for him to follow, leading him to the Painted Table room. Jon had been on his way to the nursery, wanting to check on the children, since he’d heard from the nurse that Daeron had had a cough during the night. He stared at the Dothraki, who all had murderous looks in their eyes. He went to the head of the table, leaning on it and looking down the length of Aegon’s map, staring as a young man, practically a boy was dragged in by two of the Dothraki. 

He glanced at Grey Worm, who nodded his head slightly, although Jon was not sure exactly what was happening. He took the object one of them passed to Raqho, who walked over. “_Khal_,” he said, passing it to him. 

The vial was tiny and thin, but there was enough clear liquid contained inside. He felt his stomach lurch into his throat and he almost choked on the bitter bile that threatened to come up. His eyes burned. Somewhere blood rushed to his head and his hands clenched at the glass, so hard he was worried it might break. “Where?” he barely got out through grit teeth.

The words Raqho said was all Jon needed, even though he already had his suspicions. The look on the Dothraki and on Grey Worm was all he needed. As was the sheer terror the young page, for he was no knight, had in his eyes. He lifted his chin defiantly though; Jon had to hand that to him. _”Naqis khaleesi ma khal.”_

_Little queen and king._

The rage was barely contained. His hands shook and he felt the rage inside of him blacken his vision. “Safe,” Grey Worm confirmed. It didn’t matter, Jon thought, a serene smile on his face. He walked over to the young man, staring at him for a moment more. 

The door burst open before he could do anything, Davos and Arya appearing. “What is happening?” Davos asked, looking at everyone. He hit the page on the shoulder. “Speak!”

“My name is Alric Stone. That’s all I’m saying,” the young man muttered. 

A bastard of the Vale, a page to one of the knights, and would-be assassin of his children, Jon thought, still staring at the man’s defiant expression. He barely looked at the guards, his voice a whisper. “Take him downstairs.”

They moved fast, all the Dothraki pushing to get a grip on the man, whose feet did not even touch the floor as they dragged him out. Raqho shouted to one of the others. “_Longclaw!_”

One of the Dothraki handed him the sword as they strode through the corridors, which he held in one hand, striding after them, Davos shouting that he needed to get answers before he started chopping heads, while Arya swore before the old gods and new that she would take the man’s face before he knew what was happening. “How could they be so stupid?” she demanded, referring to the Vale, he assumed. 

They made it to the dungeons and out through one of the breaks in the stone to a small beach, where he knew a long time ago Davos had once smuggled people in and out. The Dothraki dropped the man into the surf, the waves washing up and against him, the young man crying out in shock at the icy water. He stared at him for a few minutes before his fist swung out, cracking into the man’s nose. He fell into the surf and Jon hauled him back up, punching again. 

And again and again and again. 

Blood clouded his vision and his knuckles were raw by the time he felt someone pull up on him. He fell backwards, realizing it was Arya, who had no expression on her face. “We need him alive,” she said, her voice dead. “He has to answer to who paid him to poison them.”

He leaned down to his boot, pulling out the knife he kept hidden there, spinning it in his fingers for a moment as he stared at the bastard Stone, who was coughing and sputtering in the surf, the water washing over him each time he tried to breath through his broken mouth and nose. Jon could barely think, focusing entirely on the threat to his family. He grabbed the man’s hand. “Who paid you?” he demanded. 

Stone chuckled. “No one.”

He grabbed the man’s pinkie finger and removed it from the hand, ignoring the screams. When the finger was gone, he waited again. “Who paid you?” he repeated. Another negative reply. Another finger. 

The man had gone through at least five fingers and Jon was going to start tearing at his teeth, when Stone mumbled something. Arya grabbed his head, lifting it up. “What did you say?” she demanded. 

Stone laughed again, blood spitting from his mouth. “No dragon will rule the Vale again,” he rasped. 

“That’s funny,” Jon murmured. He arched a brow. “Jon Arryn lifted his banners for a lie. My father and mother are dead because of him. The Vale means nothing to me.” He was going to try to cut off another finger when he saw the torch in Davos’s hand. He smiled and let go, dropping the hand to the man’s side. He walked over and calmly took the torch from Davos, returning to the surf. Even Arya lifted her brows, surprised. He knelt, holding the torch under Stone’s face, lighting it up in the dim light of the cave. “I don’t have a dragon any longer, so this will have to do.” He gazed into the fire, watching it dance across Stone’s face, the man’s eyes beginning to fill with fear. 

Just as he was about to go towards him with the torch, Stone threw his hands up, well what remained of a hand. “Royce! It was Royce!”

Jon did not have to turn around to know Grey Worm and Raqho had already gone to find the leader of the Knights. He nodded and handed Arya the torch, taking Longclaw and executing the would-be assassin in a swift swing. He kicked the body into the surf, not bothering to look back, even when he saw the concerned look in Davos’s eyes. He might regret how he handled this tomorrow, but right now he was in survival mode. 

He made his way to the hall, seeing them dragging Royce from one of the chambers off the throne room, Sansa hurrying behind him, demanding answers. He went down to the beach and turned, the cold air blowing over his face and through his hair, the salt stinging his eyes. He closed them tight, feeling something other than the sting of the sea water. Tears. He could have lost them. He waited a few moments and turned, staring down at Yohn Royce, a formidable commander and longtime ally of House Stark.

Sansa arrived beside them. “What is the meaning of this Jon?” she demanded, grabbing at the thin cloak she wore. She gestured. “You mean to try Lord Royce? What charges?”

“Plot to kill my children,” Jon murmured. He could not look at Sansa. If he did, he might truly lose his control. Whatever control he had somehow managed to maintain between torturing and executing a possible assassin.

Davos moved towards Royce. “My lord, you were accused of hiring an assassin, a man named Alric Stone, to poison the children of King…Aegon. The man has been executed. What do you say to these accusations?”

Royce lifted his chin, smiling over at Sansa and slowly nodding his head. She gasped in horror, covering her mouth with her hands. “I am guilty of this crime, Your Grace. The Targaryens brought about the downfall of the Seven Kigndoms and we will not sit by as another chance at that dynasty does the same. Lord Jon Arryn raised his banners to the Mad King and the Vale does not forget his sacrifices to the realm. No dragon will rule the Vale again.”

Interesting, he thought. He smiled briefly. “Does your Lord Paramount believe this?”

“Lord Arryn?” Royce laughed. “He is but a child, manipulated into his decisions. He does not know.” He glanced at Sansa and smiled asdly. “Your Grace, we did it for you. The true Queen.”

“I didn’t know,” Sansa stammered, when Jon turned his gaze on her. She sobbed and he actually believed her, while Arya just gaped in shock. “Please Jon, I swear to the gods I did not know.”

“And we know how important swearing to the gods is to you,” he whispered. He looked back at Royce. He really hated having to do this for Royce was a good knight. A good warrior and tactician. It was unfortunate. “Lord Yohn Royce of the Vale, I sentence you to die for plotting to assassinate two babes in their bed.” He withdrew Longclaw again. “Do you have any last words?”

Royce squinted and smiled. “Long live Queen Sansa.”

Very well. A scream from Sansa, the whoosh of Longclaw, and the thud of a body on the sand. 

And he walked back to the castle, truly numb, and the first the thing he did was go straight to the nursery to make sure his children were safe.

~/~/~/~/~

Davos had tried to get him to get some rest, it had been a stressful day, but Jon could not even think of sleep. He had stationed several more guards at the door and corridor of the nursery. He’d sent the entirety of the Vale knights to their ship and confined Sansa to her room with Arya as a guard, to make sure she didn’t try anything stupid.

He went to Bran first, before he could talk to his sister. He did not bother knocking when he entered Bran’s room, finding his brother seated in a chair by the fire. “Do you have a moment?” he asked. He did not care what Bran’s answer was. He went to sit beside him. “I have some questions.”

“I hope I can answer them,” Bran said. He gazed into the fire. “I heard what happened earlier. The assassin. Royce.” He paused. “How are you?”

“I executed two men today.” He did not like execution, even if it was necessary. He propped his head on his hand, slouched back in the chair. He fumbled his other hand in his pocket, removing the silver ring he’d located in Dany’s things. It was her mother’s, he remembered her saying, and he never went anywhere without it now. One day he would give it to Lyella. 

Bran nodded, but did not meet his eyes. “They were going to kill your children. You did what you had to do.”

“Robert sent assassins after Dany and her brother…every chance he could. Is that their future?” He was not sure how this worked. Bran claimed he could see everything. He could warg into animals and fly. He could see the past. Did the future reveal itself to him as well? He would not believe it possible if he had not seen dragons and direwolves and dead men walking. 

The shell of his brother chuckled. “I cannot see like that.”

He moved the chair closer to Bran. “So how does it work? If I ask you questions, can you answer them?”

“It depends.”

“Did Sansa have anything to do with this plot?” That was all he wanted to know right now. It consumed him. He was not sure what he was going to do if the answer was ‘yes.’ He did not want to be a kinslayer. He couldn’t. It would destroy him further. 

Bran blinked. “No.” He nodded his head slightly. “Purposefully. They did what they thought was right. Sansa did not know what they were going to do.”

What they thought was right? “I’m doing what I think is right,” he said. He tapped his fingers on the armrest. It was a nervous tic he had developed as Lord Commander. All those decisions and men and choices. The energy had to go somewhere. He clenched them into a fist a moment later. “I don’t want to kill her, she’s my kin. I can kill all the knights and traitors of the world, but my family? How could I ever come back from doing that?”

“You don’t.”

Somewhere in that broken shell of a woman, in that monster hungry for power, was his sister. The one he’d hugged at Castle Black and had not realized how much he had missed. He glanced up again. “Can you look into the future? What do you see?”

“It is like a rock in a pond. It ripples. It changes.” Bran shifted in the chair and folded his hands beneath the furs covering his broken legs. “I am only an observer. Nothing more.”

How could he confirm what he should do then? He did not want to keep killing, but he would gladly do so if it protected his children. “Do you see Sansa in the future?”

“Yes.”

“Is she dead?”

“I cannot tell you.”

Now he was frustrated. He blew a hard breath. The hair falling over his forehead moved slightly at the breath. “Why not?”

“Because that will make your decision for you and I cannot do that. I cannot dictate the future.” 

Well this had not been as enlightening as he hoped. He got up and patted Bran’s shoulder. “Thank you.” He knew what he had to do, he realized, leaving his brother to his thoughts before the fire. He went across the corridor to Sansa’s room, knocking lightly and hearing her soft ‘yes?’

The sight before him was not what he expected. She was sitting at a table by the open arched windows, her eyes ringed red and puffy. Her sleek russet hair was knotted at the base of her neck and she had an irritated nose, as though she’d been rubbing it constantly. She had been crying. No doubt sobbing. She cried at the sight of him, turning her face to the sea. “Are you here to kill me?” she managed to get out between sobs.

He walked over to the table by the door and picked up a jug of wine, pouring her a cup. He made himself one and carried them to the table, setting hers in front of her. He sat across, leaning in the chair. “That depends,” he lied. He watched her take the cup. She sipped it. Eventually took a long pull. He watched her set it back down before he took a tiny sip of his drink. “Do you remember when you arrived at the Wall?”

“Yes,” she laughed. She wiped her eyes shakily with the back of her hand. “I had just escaped from Ramsay…I was terrified. I needed you to hide me and the Night’s Watch isn’t supposed to take sides.” She chewed her lower lip, whispering. “I just wanted my family. I wanted to get my home back.”

Not while he was Lord Commander. All they did was take sides when he was in charge. He reached into his pocket and removed one of Varys’s rings. He set it down between their wine cups. She looked at it for a moment and lifted her gaze, silently questioning. “This is one of Lord Varys’s rings.” He sighed. “He kept the poison in it.”

It took her a moment. She’d already had another sip of wine in the meantime. Jon nudged his glass aside and folded his hands on the table in front of her, staring her straight down. “I watched the woman I love bleed out,” he whispered. Her face when white. She choked, grabbing her throat and staring at him. He smiled sadly. “It came from everywhere. Her nose and mouth. My children almost died, she had gone into delivery early because of the poison. I still do not know how Varys got it to her, she was being very careful, but it doesn’t matter.”

Sansa rasped, tears streaming down her face again, her face turning splotchy and red. “What did you do?”

“I believe you when you said you had nothing to do with the plot to kill my children.” He cut her off before she could say anything else. “I will do anything to protect my family, same as you. You broke an oath to make me the king. It got Dany killed, it got a lot of people killed, and you’re unhappy because you can’t be queen and you can’t get the North independent. That’s too bad because Dany wanted to be a queen too and now she can’t.”

Tears dripped into her wine goblet, still held in her hand. “You killed me.”

“No I did not kill you.” He picked up his wine goblet and gulped it down, slamming it down hard on the table in front of her. She jumped at the sound. He met her gaze again. Hard and angry. “I don’t kill my kin, Sansa. That doesn’t mean someone else won’t. You made a lot of people angry when you decided Dany was not worth it. She was beloved my many.” He paused and smiled briefly. “You need to be careful, moving forward, because I will not kill you but that doesn’t mean someone else won’t, for what you did.”

He pocketed the ring and removed Dany’s, setting it down in the other’s place. “This was all Dany had of her mother. You had a mother. Catelyn.” He said the name with slight disdain. He wrinkled his nose. “You had a father. You were hurt. Abused, raped, defiled, and sold. You are not ht eonly one, Sansa.” He tugged at the collar of his tunic, revealing the crescent scar on his chest, the knife wound still gaping. She gasped. “I was killed. I came back.” He picked up the ring and stood, staring down at her. “Don’t pretend you are the only one in the North who suffered.”

He turned away, walking towards the door when she called out. Tired, defeated. “What happened to you Jon?” She sobbed. “Because you’re not Jon.”

A hand on the doorknob, he waited a beat. He did not turn. “I am Jon. Just not the side you wanted to see.” The other side of the coin. He opened the door and left, ignoring her cries.

~/~/~/~/~

_Two Months After Battle of King’s Landing _

The last time he was in this room he’d pushed away the only woman he thought he’d ever truly loved. His feelings scared him. His overwhelming need to just _take her_ had scared him. They were blood relations, but he could only think of having her in his bed. She was his queen, but he only ever thought of her like a lover. It scared him. He’d pushed her away. He’d betrayed her. 

He missed his children. He stared out the window, leaning his hands on the shutters and staring out into the yard below. Even when he was King in the North before he had avoided taking his father’s chambers. That was for the true Lord of Winterfell and he was still a bastard. He could have them now, but there was something about this small room in the corner of the floor where the family stayed that he missed. 

Before that night, they’d laid here together. He had been worried about what people might think, but she’d simply kissed him and pushed him into the bedroom, laughing. “Who cares what people think, Jon Snow? I’m a queen. I take what I want and I want you.” And he’d gladly let her.

“I’m losing my mind,” he murmured. He pushed away from the window and picked up the cloak draped over the end of the bed, throwing it over his shoulders. Sansa had offered to give him the one he’d left here before, the one she’d made for him before he went to Dragonstone the first time, but he declined. That was just like what his father wore and he was not his father. 

The black cloak was lined with gray fur and had a gray ruff around the neck, but he was never without the red scarf that belonged to Dany. He tied his sword belt around his waist, Longclaw bumping against his hip. He picked up the swatch of fabric he’d also brought with him, smiling at the little feet prints on the linen. One of the Dothraki nurses had presented it to him, smiling and patting his cheek before he left. They had used the ash from the fireplace to press each one of his children’s feet on the fabric and then set it somehow so it would not smudge.

He touched the bigger foot lightly. Lyella was larger than her brother and tended to also push harder at him when they were jostling for space in their cradle. Daeron was quiet and smaller, but he could squeeze a finger harder and would never let go. He looked at the bed, sighing. “I wish you were here Dany. I have no idea what I am doing…I think I’m going mad most days.”

_You’re not mad, you’re finally being the man you always were meant to be._ He closed his eyes and smiled, swore he could feel her next to him. He reached to where she was satnding, but hwen he opened his eyes, she wasn’t there and he was grasping at air. He sighed and folded the swatch with the babies’ footprints, tucking it into his jerking, to nestle beside his heart.

He swept through the corridors, noting that people stayed away from him, ducking into rooms and darting around corners. They were afraid of him. Good, he thought, because if they feared him, then they wouldn’t cross him. He was tired of all the games. He stepped out into the training yard, feeling eyes watching him. He squinted in the distance and frowned. _Godswood._

The godswood was blessedly empty, he couldn’t deal with either Bran or Sansa at the moment. Arya did not visit the godswood anymore. Her god was Death, she said. Or the Many-Faced God. He didn’t question it; everyone’s beliefs were their own. He went to stand before the hearttree, watching the carved face for a moment, expecting it to start speaking to him. 

The black pool of water where Ned used to sit and think, sharpening Ice and meditating about the decisions he had to make was inviting, but he remained standing. He did not hear anything; nor would he. He simply smiled and turned around, staring straight into the red eyes of Ghost, who had padded silently after him into the wood. “Hello friend,” he whispered, kneeling and reaching as the wolf pressed against him, his white fur silky and comforting, and his breath warm as he reached his great head up to rest on Jon’s shoulder.

Ghost had been missing for the last day, but he knew he would see him soon. So much had happened since he’d seen him last, he felt like he had to catch up. He fell back into the snow, letting the wolf sniff at his hands and face, mapping whatever had occurred. The red eyes were knowing and sad. Jon felt the wolf’s despair and he nodded, stroking his face. “She’s gone, boy. I miss her so much.” 

The wolf sniffed at his chest and he grinned. He took out the linen and allowed Ghost to sniff at it some more, imprinting on the scent of the children. “You will love them as I do,” he vowed. He scratched behind Ghost’s missing ear, the wolf’s eyes closing in pleasure as he rubbed the joint. “They are just babes right now, but when they grow they can go with you into the forest and sit with you before the fire.” Ghost would protect them with his life. He could already sense the wolf’s need.

A horn sounded from the main hall, signaling the summit was to begin. He had wanted to get this dealt with as soon as he arrived, so he could leave just as soon. Winterfell was never his home the way it was to Sansa and Arya and Bran. He was only ever a visitor there. His home was where his children were and that was thousands of leagues away. “Best get on with it then,” he said, coming to his feet. He gripped at Ghost’s neck and the wolf followed beside him. 

Everyone in the yard dropped their heads as he walked by and he did not acknowledge them. The doors seemed to open of their own accord as he marched into the Great Hall, where Sansa and Bran were already at the head of the table. Arya stood in the corner behind them, next to Ser Brienne and her squire. He remembered the man’s name was Podrick. He could see Gendry Waters, the Lord of Storm’s End now, standing near Arya, occasionally glancing her way. 

That was an interesting development, he thought with a tiny smile, as Arya tried hard not to look at Gendry. Davos entered beside him. “Good luck,” he said. 

Yeah I’ll need it, Jon thought, walking into the room slowly, his hand on Longclaw and his other lightly trailing in Ghost’s fur. He had put his hair into the braids the Dothraki preferred and finally trimmed his beard. One of the tiny silver dragon pins Dany used to wear was nestled in one of the braids and he had her mother’s ring in his pocket. She was with him, always.

He paused and heard Davos announce him as Jon Snow, the King in the North, the White Wolf…all that nonsense. He remembered when Samwell had told him in the crypts, before his father’s stone visage. He could see Sam hiding with Gilly in the corner of the room, near the exit. He would have to speak with him later. He needed to return to the Citadel. Everyone rose and he walked through them, his hooded gaze dropping to each of the main vassals.

At the head of the table, with the great wolf throne chair that his father had once sat in, he remained standing and gestured for everyone to sit. He had barely opened his mouth to speak when Lord Manderly stood. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head. “I stand before you here, humbled in your presence, for if I am not mistaken, you are not only our King in the North, but King of the remaining Kingdoms? Is this true?”

Manderly was such an old fool, he thought idly, waving his hand for him to sit. “Before I even had a chance to thank all my lords and ladies for attending this summit,” he began, shooting a dark look at Manderly. He continued. “I stand before you as your King in the North.” He paused. “Many of you have no doubt heard the news from your men, but yes, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen was assassinated in her birthing bed before the battle of King’s Landing.”

Everyone began to titter, some of them not catching that he had said ‘birthing bed’ and others immediately shooting each other worried looks that there was likely another heir to the Targaryen name out there. Jon silenced them all with one sweeping look. He continued. “I thank all of those houses who sent men to fight on behalf of Queen Daenerys’s claim as the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and who took back her family’s throne.” He chuckled. “Although it seems many of you failed to remember the true order of things.”

More titters. He received several nervous looks from Houses Glover and Cerwyn. He merely smiled. “You named me King in the North, a title I also received from my brother Robb Stark, as his named heir, signed and sworn before many of you. You called me Lord Snow, since I am not a Stark.” He smiled again. They were all nervous now. Good, they should be. “As King in the North I was permitted to bend the knee to whichever ruler I saw fit. I bent the knee to Queen Daenerys, but that did not matter to many of you.” A look at Sansa now, whose face was ashen gray. 

“I did not have the Stark name, but I was Robb’s heir and Eddard Stark’s blood.” Not bastard. No longer a bastard. Here we go, he thought with a smile. “I did not have their name because I had another.”

“Snow,” he thought someone called out. 

A wry smile tugged on his lips. “Aye, Snow. Another name, bestowed upon me by my birth parents.” 

Lord Ryswell stood, confused. “Your Grace, you are Jon Snow, Eddard Stark’s bastard son. Your birth parents were Eddard Stark and the woman he refused to acknowledge.”

Blood began to curdle in his veins. He grit his teeth. “Will you fools stop interrupting me?” he demanded, ice chilling his words. At the look he gave everyone they immediately dropped their heads. He lfited his chin. “As I was saying. My mother was Lyanna Stark.” Gasps. “My father was Rhaegar Targaryen.” He thought he heard someone cry out in shock. He smiled wide, here it was. “And my name is Aegon Targaryen.”

“Pretender!” someone shouted. Another called out “Not a Stark!” “False king!” “Shut up you fools!” “What now?”

So many questions, he thought, lifting his hands at the chaos. “As I was saying,” he exclaimed, silencing them all. He dropped his hands. “You may not want a dragon on your winter throne and I understand. You will, however, listen to me as your king right now. I did not want this title, but I will take it because it was what Queen Daenerys would have wanted.” What she had died for.

He glanced at Sansa, his words meant for her. “As your King I expect you to follow me and anyone who defies my rule is guilty of treason.” He scanned them all again after Sansa’s face when paler than he thought it could. “Many of you committed treason when you refused to acknowledge Queen Daenerys as your rightful queen. When I bent the knee to her I became Warden of the North and Lord Paramount.” He paused again. “Now that the matter of who your rightful ruler is, we can get on with business.”

He sat down in the throne and leaned back, feeling instantly bored by all this politicking. He hated it before and he hated it now. He never wanted this; they saw fit to grant it to him. “You all have lost many in the wars over the years and many of us lost all in the Great War. We have lost House Karstark, House Mormont, and House Umber to the war. Each of their houses and lands will be divvied up accordingly provided there are no remaining heirs.” 

Sansa leaned forward, her hands tight together atop a pile of papers. “Your Grace I have queried all the lords and ladies as well as the family records. There are no remaining heirs for each of those houses.”

“Very well, we will have to discuss divvying lands.” 

Cerwyn stood up then, bowing his head. “Your Grace, House Cerwyn respectfully requests that Bear Island of House Mormont, be granted to our lands. It is not an auspicious piece of territory but…”

Whatever rationale Cerwyn had for Bear Island meant nothing to him. He waved his hand again, silencing the man. “Bear Island is not for anyone but me,” he announced. He thought of Jeor, Jorah, and Lyanna. His eyes closed in mourning for them all. He looked up again. They were all questioning. He arched a brow. “Do I have to explain myself? Fine, I will.” He stood again. This was getting tedious. “Lord Commander Jeor Mormont was my mentor, he granted me his ancestral sword Longclaw for saving his life. Ser Jorah Mormont was the sword shield of Queen Daenerys and died saving her. Lady Lyanna Mormont was a force to be reckoned and we would not be here were it not for her strong will and determination. Their family fought with Robb, died for us all, and Bear Island will one day go to my descendants.”

In fact, he thought maybe one day he might like to take Lyella there. It was a shame the children were still too small to come North. Soon, he vowed. Soon they would be. Manderly stood up this time. “Your Grace…have you a marriage match?”

No doubt Manderly was going to try to pair him with one of his granddaughters, Wylla or Wynafryd. Jon sighed. “No, I have already married.” A lie, but a smooth one nonetheless. Everyone’s eyes widened and gasps heard all around, even from Sansa and Arya. Bran remained silent as ever. He smiled. “Queen Daenerys and I were married before she birthed our children and died.” More shocked looks and gasps. He was getting so tired of their feigned surprise. 

“Targaryens inheriting Winterfell?” someone called out. “Unheard of!”

“I do not judge the child by the sins of the father and nor should any of you,” Jon ordered. “We have had this conversation too many times to count and I will not have it again. Now, business.” He gestured to the windows. “You will note that upon your entry today an execution block has been set up.” 

He looked at everyone and smiled. “Lord Robbet Glover, please stand and receive your sentence for betrayal and abandonment of your liege lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noticed some comments lately that are really aggressive for lack of a better word. Go away and write your own fic if you don't like mine. Mwah, as much as writing fluff makes me happy, this fic is oddly catharic. Once I'm done with this one I will work on the Christmas AU (yay, dark Dany!)
> 
> Next time: Tormund learns about the twins and is SOHAPPYOMG; Jon's decisions at the Great Council surprise and baffle; Dany continues to 'haunt' Jon


	6. my reign has just begun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reunites with Tormund, institutes his rules and order as king, and finds a secret in Dragonstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two family-ish scenes bookend pol!Jon. Sorry if the council drags a bit. I wanted to try to outline Jon's vision for the realm before he says bye bitches and heads North.

The King in the North had returned.

So said the free folk, so Tormund got on his horse, took off as fast as he could, and arrived at Winterfell just in time to see the King in the North, who had departed from Winterfell a little over a year ago, take off the head of one of the Northern lords. He shook his head slightly, reaching to rub at his neck and wincing. He nudged one of the smallfolk, as they called them, and nodded. “What’s going on? Why’s the King in the North cutting heads?”

“Lord Glover abandoned his liege lord during war,” the old man said, tsking. “He deserves it.”

Huh, made sense, he supposed, but the laws and words of the kneelers meant nothing to him and often were downright confusing. They always made something out of nothing. He was just glad to see King Fucking Crow after all this time. He nudged the guy again. “So what’s the King doing back? Where’s the Dragon lady?”

The man looked at him like he had grown two heads. Tormund checked his head, just to make sure, but it was just him up there. “She’s dead,” he said, giving him a look and then walked off. 

Well we don’t get fucking ravens in the North, Tormund thought with a scowl. He turned his head to the execution block and spotted the bearded smuggler with half his fingers. He would know what was going on. He pushed through everyone, kicking them when they didn’t get out of his way, and finally emerged over by the block, where a couple other lords were stoically waiting for their death. He pushed at Davos, that was his name, he remembered, and grinned wickedly. “So why’re we killing people today?”

“They won’t kneel to a Targaryen king of the north,” Davos answered, before he slapped his shoulder. “Good to see you friend, the King will be pleased that you’ve come here today. I think he wants to see a friendly faces.”

“The ones around here are so angry,” Tormund observed. He frowned. “Targ…whatever? That the Dragon queen?” He leaned in, hushed. “She died, they said? What did I miss up there at the black castle?” He knew he should have left sooner, when the white wolf had gotten up from where he normally waited by the gate and finally trotted out, never to be seen again. Said wolf was sitting at the side of his familiar, on the stand. He chuckled. “Wait, so…he’s related to Dragon Queen if he’s a Targ?” He whistled low under his breath. And then nodded. “That’s gotta’ send that little pecker running.”

“It did, that wast eh problem,” Davos said, as another one of Glover’s men lost their head. “You are very far behind on the news from the south, my free friend. Her Grace was murdered by one of her advisors.”

“The little man?” Tormund asked knowingly. He never trusted that fucker. Brother to the golden one-handed man who took away his big woman. He scowled over at her, standing there with her sword and her armor. Gods he wanted to have big babies with her still, even if she broke his heart with the one-handed man. He had two hands! He kept his eyes on her and leaned back to Davos. “So what else did I miss with our King Crow?”

Davos chuckled. “He has two children with Her Grace.”

Tormund had torn off arms of people, gutted them, burned them, cleaved his axe through their heads, and he never got dizzy or felt like falling down, but hearing that King Crow had little baby crows almost sent him to his knees and made his head go fuzzy as he rounded on the half-fingered man. “Anything else?” he demanded. He had to go find Crow, who just walked up to the dais, the bodies and heads being taken away to be burned, no doubt. 

He looked up when Crow opened his mouth to speak and realized that there was a different bearing on him. Even when he was wandering with them above the Wall and even when he led them through and saved their sorry asses each time he could, fuck even after coming back from the dead when he should have been walking around like he owned the fucking world, King Crow never looked like he wanted people to look at him. Tormund always thought it was because his hair was too pretty, who would want people looking at him with hair that pretty? He always kept his eyes down. Like he had a hundred rocks on his back he was carrying around for some reason. 

Except now it seemed like he stood taller. The pretty hair was in pretty braids like the horse fuckers that Tormund envied but would never tell anyone. He nodded towards him and pushed at Davos’s side. “Where’s the wolf stuff?” The kneelers loved their pretty little pictures and colors to tell each other apart. Crow didn’t wear it for a long time, until he became King in the North and then he always had a wolf on his armor or his cloak.

It seemed like he got his answer, when Crow finally spoke. Everyone silenced immediately. Tormund’s eyes were wide as blue moons. He had never seen anyone go quiet that fast. Even in Crow’s presence. He looked up, listening intently, even though whatever Crow was going to say didn’t apply to him. “He’s a king,” he murmured, realizing it finally.

“Some of you may think of me as a dragon, but I was raised here.” Crow’s voice was soft, but it seemed to boom in the quiet silence of the yard. He leaned on his sword, black-gloved hands clutching around the white wolf pommel. He dropped his dark eyes to each one of the lords circled around him. He began to relay stories, things that had happened to each one of their families and they all nodded in memory. He spoke about how Ned Stark raised him as a bastard to protect him. They all respected Ned Stark, didn’t they? He told them how he was Robb Stark’s brother in everything but name. He was the last remaining Stark with a direwolf. Ghost came to sit beside him when he said that. 

Tormund listened, smiling, and looking around at everyone. If they didn’t follow this fucker to their deaths, then they didn’t deserve to live now. He gripped the handle of his axe, kind of wanting an opportunity to use it. He couldn’t believe that he, Tormund Giantsbane, bear killer and fucker, raised by giants, and slayer of White Walkers, who would never kneel if he had a blade to his neck would, however, follow this Crow into death itself. He looked around at everyone, who then began to drop to their knees. He shook his head, rolling his eyes. _Kneelers._

They raised their swords and shouted “The King in the North!”

Well of course he was the King in the North. He was King of everything, Tormund figured, judging from how he seemed to carry himself. He might have the name of the dragon family, but he knew Jon Fucking Snow was a wolf. Had a dragon temper though, that was for sure, briefly remembering the way he’d beat the fucking shit out of that creepy Ramsay fucker. He slinked away from the crowd, moving around so he could follow the king whenever he felt like leaving the mass of Northerners kneeling and hailing to their king. 

He followed Crow into the godswood, holding his arms out and grinning mad. “Crow!”

The dour face actually wrinkled into a smile. Crow had such a pretty smile, eh thought with an eyeroll, grabbing and lifting him clear off the ground, shaking him a bit for good measure and dropping him back to the snow. “Tormund,” Crow said with a chuckle, patting his shoulder. “How are you?”

“Cold,” Tormund said.

“The free folk?”

“Crows are letting us through the Wall at Castle Black, but some want to stick around down here. Less snow, you know.” He studied the dark eyes of the man standing next to him. They were so sad. Sadder than they had been before. He patted his shoulder again, dropping his voice to a husky murmur. “Heard about the Dragon Queen. I am sorry.” 

The man tried to smile, but it was pained. Tormund had seen him with the fiery Ygritte more than he’d seen him with the cool Dragon Queen, but he also sensed more with the Crow’s feelings towards the dragon lady. Same with her to him. Crow didn’t know, but he’d been there when they dragged his frozen body through the gate at Eastwatch and had seen how the queen acted when she thought he was dead. That wasn’t just a queen worried about her subject. 

Snow’s face seemed to quiver, emotions trying to come back under control. He laughed, but it came out more of a sob and he turned his face away, pale cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. Tormund studied him for a few more moments, before he lightly patted his back again. “Heard you got babes now.”

That seemed to do it, bringing the other man out of his pain. At least, a little. He smiled again, this one actually meeting his eyes. He nodded quickly. “Aye,” he whispered. He smiled wider. “Twins. A boy and a girl.”

“You might not have the pecker of a god but you sure must be able to use it.”

That got him an eyeroll, which had him laughing. About time he actually show something other than brooding sadness. He slapped his shoulder again. “A boy and a girl, that’s something. Do they have names? They shouldn’t have names yet.” Free folk did not name the babes until after the first year or so. Bad luck, he thought. Of course these folks here probably had names picked out before the babe was even in the momma’s belly. 

Snow walked towards the great weirwood, the wolf following at his side. “My son is named Daeron. My daughter is Lyella.”

“They here?”

“Not right now. Soon though.”

He nodded and crossed his arms over his chest, squaring off as the other man knelt in front of the tree, removing his glove to cover one of the roots with his palm. He followed the Old Gods, all free folk did, but he was not particularly practicing. He did, however, respect the other man and went around to the other side of the tree, waiting until he had finished with whatever he wanted to impart on the Gods. He looked down at the wolf, who glared up at him with red eyes. He shrugged at him. “What?”

The wolf snapped his teeth. Snow came around from the other side of the tree. “Thank you for watching him for me. I need to go south for some things, but then I’ll be back.” 

“You gonna’ be king of all this world from the North?” 

Snow’s lips twitched. “If I have my way I will not be king of anything from the North.” He pulled his black cloak around him tighter. Tormund realized he had on a red scarf tied around his neck. Looked like something the Dragon Lady used to wear. He smirked and reached to pull at one of the braids. “Stop it,” Snow laughed.

“You turn into a prissy girl down South, King Crow?”

“She put her hair like this, like the Dothraki. One for each battle won.” He fumbled in the folds of his cloak, removing a ring. He twisted it around in his fingers for a moment. Tormund flinched when Snow’s voice cracked. Grief heavy in the words. “She’s gone Tormund. I’m all they have left and…and I’m not going to let them live in a world where everywhere they turn there’s an assassin waiting.” 

Fire lit in his eyes. He gripped his axe in his hand tightly. “Who wants those pretty little crow babies? I’ll kill em’. My axe is yours.”

Snow shook his head, chuckling and wrapping his hand around the ring. “No, the people involved in her death are gone.” His eyes darkened further, blowing black disgust through the grayish-brown. “Except my sister.”

Kinslaying was a dirty business. Even among free folk. You killed your kin, you never killed again because someone else killed you for it or you were sent far away to the north, to freeze to death in solitude, never to interact with another again. He shook his head. “Don’t be a kinslayer, Crow.”

“I think I handled her effectively.”

“How’s that?”

He smirked. “She only knows mindgames. I played one of my own.”

Tormund chuckled; Crow could be a sneaky fucker when he wanted to be. People underestimated that. Underestimated what he would do when pushed to a corner. Maybe it was the dragon in him. Tormund had seen wolves though when they thought they had nothing else to live for, thought they were under attack, and Snow was a wolf. Just had a dragon’s temper and mind sometimes. He reached over and grabbed Snow’s shoulder, dragging him towards the exit. “So what’re you gonna’ do now King Crow?”

“Go south.”

“Besides that.”

“Have a council.” 

He arched his brows. “I see the wheels in your mind working hard there Snow. What’re you planning?”

“Things some people may not like, but I’m going to do them anyway.” He shook his head, grumbling. “I’m so sick of this shit.”

He roared laughing, pushing him out of the godswood. “Good man. Now, when you come north.” He leaned in, deadly serious, and touched the top of his axe lightly against Snow’s chest, over his heart. He growled, warning. “You come find us. You always have a home with the free folk and we don’t care if you are wolf or dragon. You bring those babes and Uncle Tormund will raise them right.”

Snow’s smile almost took over his face, which cracked like ice in a thaw. Tormund wondered if it was the first time in years that he’d actually looked happy. “Thank you Tormund.”

“Now, tell me about your babes. Your seed strong enough to make them look like crows or are they pretty silver-haired dragons with purple eyes?”

Snow groaned. “They’re just babies.”

“Well if you won’t talk about them, then tell me…” He roved his eyes over the crowd and spotted the big woman, who met his gaze and immediately turned away, her cheeks turning pink. He pointed his axe towards her. “Tell me about Ser Brienne. She got anyone?”

“Tormund she’ll kill you.”

“I always like a challenge.”

~/~/~/~/~

Davos handed over his gloves, arching a brow. “You know what you’re planning on doing?” he asked.

Gods know if I do or not, Jon thought, shoving his fingers into the leather and pushing them up over his wrists. It was not that cold in King’s Landing, but he still felt cold, the Dragonpit holding dark memories for him. The last time he was here was when he’d announced his intention to follow Queen Daenerys, the North no longer remaining neutral in matters of the South, as it so often had in the past. He was no longer neutral at all, he was the bloody King of the Seven Kingdoms, a position he had solely because his father happened to be the former Crown Prince. 

He gazed over the massive hoard of lords and ladies seated within the pit itself, rising up on the stone benches; colorful banners fluttering loosely in the wind. They were lined up as was their order, some jostling to try to remain at the front of the pack, when there was no longer a Great House to take charge. That would end today, he thought, looking from the dark corridor to the side. He gazed up at the sky, a pretty gray today, the sun blocked out by clouds. 

The rebuilding had been going according to schedule and he had overseen the removal of the dragon skulls from the Keep’s dungeons. They would be sent to Dragonstone. He knelt in place, picking up the small bony jaw of a former sickly dragon, shaking his head at the size. Drogon could very well have been the size of the jaw when he was born and yet now he blocked out cities. So said the sailors who Davos queried when he encountered them, asking after the dragon’s well being. 

I just want him to be happy, he thought, lightly patting the jawbone in the palm of his hand, noting the crowd had begun to grow restless. He glanced at Davos. “Targaryens built this pit to house their dragons, when they no longer became of use to them.” He shook his head and handed him the bone. “_ Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor._”

The Valryian was not as poetic from his lips, but it had the effect as if it did. Davos peered up at him. “And what does that mean?”

“A dragon is not a slave.”

He stepped out into the light, striding towards where someone had set up a separate dais, with a great wooden throne, engraved with wolves and dragons. It was a lovely piece of carpentry, but he would not be sitting in it. He did not want a throne, whether iron or otherwise. Today he would do what needed to be done and hopefully end this all once and for all. He swept away from the dais, to face the heads of the remaining Great Houses. There were two vacant seats, for the Lords Paramount of the Reach and the West. He made sure to meet the eyes of at least most of those in the front of the pit. 

He reached to the pocket of his gambeson, touching the folded linen with his childrens’ footprints, wrapped around their mother’s ring. He squared off against the entirety of the kingdoms’ various rulers. There was no crown on his head. No regalia around his cloak. Dany’s scarf around his neck and the stamped wolf on the straps of his cloak. While he might have the blood of a dragon, he was at the end of the day a wolf. He considered himself far more Stark than he did Targaryen and he had prayed to the Old Gods to help him when he tried to make them all see it as well.

They were waiting. Best get this over with. 

Just as he made to speak, Catelyn Stark’s stupid brother Edmure Tully got to his feet and called out. “I thought you were King in the North, so why have we all been called here today?” 

The irritation at being interrupted, something he had not realized was a major issue for him, began to creep up his spine, tingle by tingle. If he did not stop it now, it would no doubt fester and explode into a wolfish snarl—or dragon roar—so he had to end this. He closed his eyes briefly. The growl was low in his throat and echoed in the pit. “If anyone interrupts me that will be the last time you have a tongue. Sit down Lord Edmure.”

To his credit, Edmure was not that stupid, and wisely sat down. He received curious looks from most of them. He was a stranger to everyone. The Bastard of Winterfell. The King in the North. Until he sent them ravens demanding they come to King’s Landing, signing as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. He gripped Longclaw, a comfort as he did what seemed incongruous to everything he had learned in his twenty and three years in this world. His entire life he had kept to the shadows, pushed there by his station in life, and partially from Catelyn’s angry glares. Never outside the Stark children. Never draw attention, because your entire existence draws shame to your father and his House and his family. You will never be a leader of men, Jon Snow, you are a bastard and the only thing left for you to do is go to the Wall and serve the realm by freezing to death protecting them from wildlings and fairytales. 

Until everything went upside down and he not only wasn’t a bastard, but he was a prince, and he was a leader and he died and came back and had fallen in love and become a father and everything he had ever believed about himself was a lie. He was a king, something he never wanted and didn’t even want now, but he had to do his duty. That was all he’d ever done. Duty over love, Aemon Targaryen said to him. He closed his eyes briefly. 

_You can do it my love, I believe in you, I would have ruled with you. We would have done it together. _ He felt her fingers pulling at the knot he’d tugged his hair into at the base of his neck. She never liked his hair pulled back. She kissed at his cheek and he felt the soft pressure of her breasts on his back and the lovely smell of lemons. She kissed him again. _You were born to be a king, you can do this, it’s in your blood, whether you want it or not. Just show them and you will be great. Then we can be together. _

We can be together, he thought, turning his face towards her. She was positively ethereal. Moonlight colored hair tumbling over her shoulders and her violet eyes flecked with gold, peering through every barrier he had ever put up over his heart. With the fire of a dragon Daenerys Targaryen had burned through those icy shields and exposed every hidden fiber of his being to her warmth. 

He closed his eyes again and felt her fade away. I will see you soon, he vowed, returning his attention to the irascible lords and ladies of Westeros. He called upon everything he had ever learned from Jeor Mormont about presence and leadership. Everything he had ever seen in Ned Stark. Do this and you can go home, the voice in the back of his head said. You can go back to your children and take them north and live in the peace you’ve always wanted since you were born.

“I called you here,” he began, walking towards them and beginning to prowl in front of the dais. A wolf in a cage. “To discuss the future of the realm. There have been too many years of bloodshed, going back to Robert’s Rebellion. Too many dead. Great houses extinct, all in the name of power.” He shot a look at Sansa, reminding her of her own prurient need for it. She ducked her head. “The Iron Throne is gone.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Edmure Tully squirming, no doubt wanting to ask where it went. He sighed. “I burned it. Dragonfire rended it and dragonfire destroyed it.” He swallowed hard. “By rights the throne was conquered in the name of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.” The overwhelming emotion drew up from somewhere inside. He closed his eyes hard at the feelings. “Queen Daenerys was murdered.” This should not come as a surprise. It had been months. Many knew already. Many knew about him already. “By rights the throne passes to the next Targaryen heir.”

Someone called out, forgetting his or her place. “Who then? Targaryens are extinct!”

There was a rumble among the crowd. “I am the last Targaryen,” he announced. He gripped the wolf head harder. He was not a Stark, but he was a wolf. Lyanna had the wolf’s blood they all said. He knew he had it too. More rumbles. His voice raised higher so he could speak. “Some of you may already know, some of you may have already realized since I took on the title as King, but my father was Rhaegar Targaryen. My mother Lyanna Stark. They were married and we have proof from a high septon who married them.” His lips twitched slightly. A marriage before the Seven was not the same as a marriage before the Old Gods. He stepped closer now. So he was almost toe-to-toe with most of the high lords. “My real name is Aegon Targaryen, but I was raised as Jon Snow. Eddard Stark took me in, gave me his protection at the cost of his honor and his loyalty to his king, in the name of family.” 

One of the lords, wearing the tower of Hightower, stood. He was tall, with silver hair, but distinguished. Elegant and refined. He bowed his head. “Your Grace, I am Lord Leyton Hightower. I knew your father, both adopted and blood, and I want you to know that my uncle Ser Gerold Hightower laid his life for yours.” He drew his sword, holding it in his hands and bowing his head further. “You have the Hightower’s support, in perpetuity.”

_Perpetuity_

He smiled, in spite of himself, and he could see Arya’s curious frown. “That means forever,” he whispered, still smiling. He cleared his throat and nodded to Lord Hightower. “Thank you my lord. I accept the Hightower’s support, but I want you and everyone here to know that I do not intend to remain king until my dying day as most kings.” That drew out the gasps and surprised yelps. He smiled. “I will remain king while we begin to rebuild. Until such time as a new king can be named.” 

It had been Sam who had come to him, worried not only for his head since he was the one who told him originally of his birth, but also because he knew, as his best friend, that Jon would not want to remain king. What if we have a vote, he thought out loud, and everyone can select the king to rule? Or perhaps we instead have the kingdoms remain free of their own accord and just have one person act as a sort of emissary between them, brokering the trade as necessary?

All Dany wanted was to break the wheel. He would make sure it was shattered and never to be rebuilt again. He lifted his chin. “First order as your king,” he announced. He smirked. “There will be no concept of bastardy.”

That caused quite a stir. All he could think of was Dany’s absolute disgust when he’d explained out his name to her, in the confines of her stateroom on the ship, saying how she didn’t understand why children were supposed to bear the brunt of their fathers’ transgressions. He thought if he hadn’t fallen in love with her before that moment, he would have fallen in love with her after it. 

He lifted his voice again. “No questions. Fathers and mothers can name their heirs as they see fit, whether or not the children were born in marriage vows or not. I will not have another child in this realm punished because of their parents’ decisions. Now, second act as king, all women will be included in the line of succession wheni t comes to inheriting titles.” He gestured to Princess Arianne Martell, whose smile was already wide, widen even further, almost breaking her face. “Princess Arianne of Dorne, tell me, has women inheriting Sunspear over the claims of their brothers caused…” He searched for a word. “Chaos?”

Princess Arianne, a beautiful woman with dark ringlets that poured from a complicated mess of braids and diamond sparkling netting and a golden dress that blended against her golden skin, stood and bowed her head. “King Aegon, allow me to say that Dorne has always supported the Targaryen restoration and we will continue to support you. And no, women inheriting titles and properties over their younger born brothers has never caused issue.” She smiled wickedly. “And if it did, we would handle it accordingly.”

The Dornish, he thought with a brief smile. He began to prowl again, going through his terms. No more oppression to contain the vassals and smallfolk. There was no outward slavery in Westeros, but they had some laws that might as well have been legalized slavery. He announced anyone found with a whip, just in case they didn’t already know, who would executed immediately. 

Now it was the difficult part, he figured. He met Yara Greyjoy’s eyes. Knew what her brother had sacrificed for his family. “As King, I am able to grant independence to certain kingdoms.” He knew that they all thought he was going to announce the North. “For their service to Queen Daenerys, I hereby grant the Iron Islands the freedom from the West. They will have their independence, as much or as little as they wish.”

Before Yara could say anything, her eyes wide and mouth falling open, Jon turned to Arianne. “The Dornish will also have their independence, but I think we all know they have essentially remained independent since Aegon’s days,” he said, with a brief smile as Arianne bowed deeply in acknowledgment. He smiled again, turning to Gendry, who had been barely paying attention, nervously shifting in his fancy gold and black cloak. “Lord Baratheon.”

Everyone drew a breath. It was like that dinner in Winterfell, where no one knew what Dany was going to do when she confronted the bastard of the Usurper. He walked towards him, smiling down at Gendry’s wide-eyed expression. “You are the Lord of Storm’s End. You supported me during the fight for the dawn.” He cocked his head slightly. “The Stormlands has not had a Storm King for many hundreds of years, but perhaps you would like to be their first.”

That was almost enough to send Gendry slipping off his chair. He jumped to his feet. “I…you’re serious?!” he exclaimed. He caught himself and instantly dropped his head. “I mean…Your Grace…I…I am barely a Lord…”

“And from what I hear you have the support of your smallfolk and of your many vassals.” The confirmation came from nods and cheers of support from the Stormlands families. He nodded to Lord Arstan Selmy, an older gentleman with cloudy eyes. “Lord Selmy, whatever you desire, you shall have it. Harvest Hall produced the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms and he died in service to Queen Daenerys. Ser Barristan’s sacrifice will not be in vain.” 

So it went. The tedious delineation of houses and realms and lands. He remained standing through the entire thing, speaking directly when possible. At the question of the independence from Dorne and the Iron Islands, he explained his line of thinking, something that Dany had also explained to him when he asked her how the Iron Islands, a land that only ever reaped because they did not sow—it was in their House words after all—would be expected to survive. 

_”My idea is that we will not interfere in their governing affairs the way the crown does in everyone else’s. They will essentially act as independent provinces, in a way the cities of Essos rule themselves but will work together in concert with others for trade and support and economy,” she said, looking over the top of one of the many scrolls surrounding her. She grinned. “Dorne did it for centuries until Daeron the Young Dragon finally conquered them.” _

_“I know Daeron, he was my favorite.” He glanced at her. “And the North? Would you be willing to dot he same?”_

_“But you bent the knee my Lord Snow.” She dropped a kiss to his lips. “But yes, we can discuss the North. Once we save it from walking dead men.” _

And his sister had destroyed it, he thought darkly, pulled from his memory. After securing the fealty of Lord Robin Arryn from the Eryie that what had happened with the Knights of the Vale was an anomaly and that he and the others had no intention of usurping him to place Sansa Stark in any sort of royal position, Jon had pretty much finished all he’d needed to accomplish. 

There was just a few other matters. “Lord Tully,” he announced, looking at Edmure. He glanced at Arya. “I understand that House Frey was butchered. Only the women remain.”

“Yes Your Grace, a servant girl said that someone came in and murdered Walder Frey and all his male descendants,” Edmure said. He looked at the sand and then up again. “Um…she said…she said that the assassin told her to repeat… ‘The north remembers, winter ahs come for House Frey.’”

Jon instantly looked at Arya, whose face was a mask. He did not need to speak any further on who the alleged assassin might have been. He nodded again. “I understand your lady wife is a Frey. The Twins will go to the next female in line of succession. However, since The Twins cross a portion of the Trident, we will need to ensure that not one family controls the crossing like before. Set up a watch of some sort to work as necessary.” Edmure nodded, accepting his orders graciously. 

No doubt wants something else, Jon figured, moving on to the next. Ser Brienne would become head of the City Watch. The North would have their independence, but they would not call themselves Kings or Queens. Wardens, like before, but once again, allowed to operate as they see fit under the crown’s limited involvement, just like the others. With Sam’s permission, he granted Ser Brienne the blade Heartsbane and took Oathkeeper from her. He knew it pained it, but after Sam had explained the significance of it, she had given it up. Heartsbane was quite heavy, but he knew Ser Brienne would likely wield it with no trouble after some training.

And now for the fun part, he thought, glancing at the area where the Tyrells and the Lannisters should have sat. He nodded to the sellsword who had taken seat in the spot reserved for Lord Paramount of the Reach. “Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, correct?” 

Bronn squinted. “Yes?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Leyton Hightower snapped from beside him. He grumbled. “Show some respect.”

Jon cocked his head; Tyrion had been the one to knight him, had been the one to give him the name ‘Blackwater’ and had decreed that he receive rights to Highgarden. After he’d allegedly been promised Harranhal. Harranhal held special significance to him now, knowing that that was where his mother and father had met, so Jon would not grant the melted castle to anyone, but he certainly was not going to allow this sellsword to reap the benefits of having the greatest land in the Reach. “You should be executed for your betrayal of everyone to whom you speak,” he said.

Bronn arched his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Pick up your sword.” He walked away, hearing the steel clink as Bronn stood and joined him. He waited a moment and turned, studying him. He briefly smiled. “I am sorry to say that your agreement with Lord Tyrion is null and void. You will not be getting Highgarden.”

The sellsword glared at him and drew his sword, pointing it. “I’ll not have some fucker come in here and take Highgarden from me! I earned that fucking castle!”

“Your agreement was with a traitor, it means nothing to me.”

“Look boy just because you fucked your way to the throne, doesn’t give you the…” Longclaw was unsheathed faster than Bronn had a chance to swing his sword and he was on his knees before the end of his sentence, eyes wide and staring at the quivering Valyrian steel pointed in the center of his throat. 

The black and red spots in his eyes did not dissipate. The wolf-like snarl curled on his lips and came from deep in his chest. “Say that again Ser Bronn.”

The sellsword, to his credit, merely smiled briefly and held his hands up in a fake surrender. He said nothing. Jon pulled the sword back, pleased to see that it had nicked the man’s neck and there was a little blood tracking its way down his neck. He straightened. “Highgarden, it’s lands and vassals, and the position of Lord Paramount of the Reach will belong from this day forth to the Hightowers.”

Bronn exploded. “What!?”

Most of the members of The Reach cheered, waving their banners and stamping their swords, as Lord Leyton stood, his head bent and genuinely awed. “Your Grace…I…I do not know what to say.”

“You can say thank you. The HIghtowers have always been vital to the prosperity of The Reach. You represent the Faith and the Citadel from your position in Oldtown.” Jon did not need to repeat again that Ser Gerold had died for him. He glanced at the Daynes, bowing his head slightly as well. Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell Whent. The three greatest of the Kingsguard, who fought even the brother of the woman they were there to protect, all because of the blood she carried within her. 

His heart ached. He wish he could have known her. 

The thought of his mother faded fast, when he saw Bronn grab his sword and get to his feet. Grey Worm and Raqho were moving from their positions at the exits of the Dragonpit, but Jon stilled them with the lift of one hand. He could handle this. Bronn lifted the sword up, pointing it. “No! Highgarden is mine! I went through fucking shit for those fucking Lannisters and they promised me! I deserve it!” He stood straighter. “Give me Casterly Rock instead.”

Casterly Rock? That piece of shit? Jon shook his head. “No, there are still Lannisters. Damion or Genna Lannister.” 

An older woman sitting with the Freys stood up and laughed. “Fuck no! I don’t want that hunk of rock! Only my brother thought it meant anything! Give it to Damion!” 

“Fine, then Lord Damion Lannister can have the Rock and the lands to go with it,” Jon decreed. He arched his brows at Bronn. He was growing tired of this man’s insolence. “You are lucky to leave with your sword and your life, Ser Bronn.”

“I’ll duel for it.”

Interesting. He turned on his heel. “Duel?”

“Trial by combat, whatever you fuckers call it these days. I best you, I get Casterly Rock. You best me…fine, I’ll be dead.” Bronn shrugged. “Seems fair.”

Arya stood up from her chair and laughed. “You are going to duel the king?”

“No little girl I’m going to duel a dragon, yes the fucking king!”

I am also a dragon too, Jon thought. “Very well.” He drew Longclaw, shrugged off his cloak, and spun quick, the bastard sword in both hands as he swung towards Bronn. It did not take long; the other man was a good fighter, to be sure, but Jon was better. Younger, faster, whatever you wanted to call it and not long after it began, Bronn had been run through with the blade and one of the last Lannsiter problems he’d had was dealt with. 

He wiped the blood from the sword as two Dothraki grabbed Bronn and dragged him out. “Does anyone else have a problem?” he called. When all he got was silence, he nodded smartly and sheathed the sword. “Good. Let’s continue.”

~/~/~/~/~

For the remainder of the week in King’s Landing Jon met with various lords and ladies to finish out the assignments of positions and lands and assuring them their families’ sacrifices in the war would not be in vain. He worked with Sam on this idea of ‘electing’ a king and agreed it needed some work. Sam would return to the Citadel to finish his studies as a Maester, something that Sam had been upset by, but Jon did not want to hear it.

“I sent you there to become a Maester and learn about the White Walkers, but you were meant to return to the Night’s Watch.” He had already absolved Sam of his vows to the Watch, which he had turned into something of a border guard, ordering the castles along it to be manned and supported, to help the free folk with their transition back and forth. 

“Do you know what they call you?” Sam asked him, as they were seated in one of the remaining undestroyed rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast. He smirked over his cup. “They call you Good King Jon.”

His cheeks burned. “That’s stupid,” he mumbled, picking up a quill and scratching out one of the various tasks that he had accomplished that day. He remembered when he’d had to do this at Castle Black, writing lords and the Iron Bank, begging for funds and loans to help feed the free folk and the Night’s Watch and rebuild the castles.

“I do not think it is stupid. It’s quite nice. Not all the kings have had names like that. Reminds me of King Jaeherys the Wise.” 

“And Good Queen Alysanne, you see why I think it is a bit stupid,” he said with a tiny smile. 

Sam cocked his head, his voice quiet. “They call you the Sad King too. Because you are melancholy.” He sipped at his wine cup. “You know the books at the Citadel said Rhaegar was melancholy too. Perhaps your penchant for brooding came from him.”

Perhaps, he thought, with a wry smile. “Ned brooded. Perhaps I learned it from watching him.” Ned always had the weight of the world on his shoulders, like the thick fur mantle he was never without. The burden of hiding the secret of his so-called bastard son must have been a terrible one, Jon thought, tapping the quill on the desk. He tugged another roll of parchment towards him. “I want recommendations for a Master of Coin as soon as possible. We will need to figure out what to do to get out of Cersei’s loan from the Iron Bank.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He eyed Sam again, shaking his head. “I told you to call me Jon. You didn’t even call me Lord Commander before!”

Sam’s cheeks went ruddy. “Well that was...that was different.”

“How?”

“Because before that was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. You weren’t the…” Sam smiled briefly and looked down at his papers again. His voice soft. “You’re the king. The most important man in this entire realm. All of the titles and everything. Like I said before.”

Yes. I wish you’d never told me, he thought, eyeing Sam for a moment longer. If Sam hadn’t told him…Bran probably never would. Then he could have never known and never told Daenerys and…he closed his eyes. It did no good to look back to the past. It was over. He would die in a circling dream of ‘what if’, if he let it happen. He focused on the linen kept close to his heart. He would see his children soon. Above all else, he had his children. He nodded to Sam again, muttering. “Let’s finish this…I want to get back to Dragonstone as soon as possible.”

“And then will you head North?”

“I’ll name a regent, until such time as we can gather everyone for this…election council thing. Then yes, I will head North.” He needed the North like he needed air at that moment. The hard cold beauty of it. He wanted to take the children to the waterfalls where he’d had his last moment of true peace. Hope that he could have that peace again. 

Because that was all anyone wanted. Even a king.

~/~/~/~/~

_One Month After Great Council _

Jon couldn’t sleep. He never could sleep. He didn’t know why this bothered him.

It was different. He kept feeling something in his chest. A burning. He got up from the bed, throwing his legs over the side and stared out the large open arches to the Narrow Sea. Dragonstone had been the center of a terrible storm earlier that day and the waves crashed against the black stone and rose as high as the archways themselves, practically washing out the beaches and stranding them completely. He glanced at the cradle next to his bed. He had the nurses move them to his room so he could be with them as mucha s possible, after so long an absence. 

It the few weeks since he’d left King’s Landing and the months he’d been gone in the North, Jon had been stunned to see the changes in the twins. They were growing fast. He could hardly believe it was nearing a full year since their birth. Since their mother died. He had somehow survived an entire year without her. How? 

_Not long now my love. Follow me._

Follow her? He left the children, taking a cloak and pulling it on over his loose tunic and breeches he wore to sleep. He was barefoot though, something he knew had caused the Dothraki guard to give him a strange look when he’d left the room. He followed her, wherever she was taking him. 

Moonlight glowed on her hair, as soft as spun wool, bouncing lightly over her shoulders. She smiled and beckoned. He was mad, he had deduced, because only mad men could see dead women and hear their whispers. He grabbed a torch from a sconce. He went down corridors and staircases, the same ones he’d wandered through when he could hear the odd pull in his heart from somewhere deep inside the hidden caves and rooms of Dragonstone. 

The castle had been created from magic in the days before the Doom. Gods knew what it held in its depths. He was in a trance, hearing her whisper his name and guide him along. He could not tell where he was now, a dark crevice somewhere. “I had the skull of Balerion brought here,” he told her. “And whatever they could find in the dungeons of the Red Keep. I thought one day the twins could play in the skull. See what their ancestor was like.”

_That’s a lovely idea. Our children will be the kings and queens of summer. Targaryens of old, riding dragons and inspiring magic across the lands. _

There are no more dragons. “Drogon was the last dragon,” he said. You were the last dragon. I am but a wolf. He looked around the dank room, somewhere beyond the farthest point he’d explored. His feet were cold and walking on warm stone. It should have been colder, he thought, looking down at them and then up. He waved the torch, noting that there were gouges in the stone. Walls that looked like it had been raining, they were so slick. 

Melted, he realized, touching one of them. Dragon fire melted this stone. He turned and she stood by a large rock, her hands on it and her eyes wide. Excited. “Where did you take me?” he asked her. He was truly mad now. He could not even get out if he tried. He had followed his dead lover down here and was conversing with her. He walked over and to his surprise, she lowered her lips to his and kissed him with a fervor he had not felt since their last true embrace. 

His lips moved over hers and he could swear she was in his arms. Soft and pliable and sighing as he kneaded her hips and felt her breasts heave through the thin fabric of his tunic. He wanted to wrap her in the cloak and take her to bed and explore every inch of her, like it was their first time. He wanted to hear her sighs and moans and sweet mutterings of Valyrian as he sent her over the edge time and time again. After, they could hold their children before the fire and dream of where they might go in the North and what they might do. He wanted to take her to the Fist of the First Men and the Frostfangs and show her the true beauty of the place he had always called home.

She drew his hands towards her heart and he felt her lower them to the ground. He fell to his knees and his hands went out, the torch landing on the ground and sending the entire corner of the cave into a dull orange glow. He blinked and stared at his hands, digging in the stone. His eyes closed tight against the ache. The longing for her to return. She never would. He reached for the torch, about to stand, when he saw it. 

There was a mound of bright purple sticking from the ground. 

He reached or it and his fingers lightly touched over the black ash coating the shiny purple slope. It was a rock, he thought, digging around it. _Nononono._ It was not a rock. He dropped the torch again and scrambled, his fingers stiff and awkward, trying to dig around the dirt that had been cocooning the object for gods knows how many centuries. 

A yell of triumph and the object was free. It was heavy in his hands. A large stone object, but it was no stone. He smiled in awe. It was a dragon egg. Shiny purple with a cap of gray. He ran his shaking hand over it. An egg for a dragon. He looked down and sure enough, there was another hiding where this one had once been. 

After about an hour, Jon had unearthed the clutch. He took off the cloak and wrapped them around the three eggs. The purple, a sapphire blue, and a charcoal with silver streaks. He carried them close, somehow finding his way from the cave and through the various tunnels and into a corridor and back around to his room, where the Dothraki once again gave him an odd look and just shook their heads, opening the door for him. 

He was tired, sweaty, cold, and covered in lava ash from the cave. He was also exhilarated. He threw the cloak on a chair and washed off the eggs. A story he remembered from Old Nan had him turning to the cradle, rather than the fire, where he had initially planned to put the eggs. He set one in, at the base of Daeron’s feet and then the other, at the base of Lyella’s feet.

Their dragons would hatch one day. It would be as Dany had told him. 

The third one he took with him and set it on the bed beside him. He stretched out and touched the charcoal scales. It was warm to the touch, despite having been hidden in the cold for so long. _”What will you call him?_

“You’ll have to help me with a name,” he murmured. 

She tugged at his hair and folded her arms around him, nuzzling into the back of his neck. _”Soon. I’ll see you soon, where the white winds blow and the lone wolf howls.”_

Jon closed his eyes and when he hugged the egg, he felt like he was hugging her too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the reviewers and those who have left comments, I wish I could respond toe very single one but that would take me days. Know that I am grateful for all the feedback! Fic writers only get paid in comments, so thank you so much :D
> 
> There will probably be three more long chapters (I am debating on an epilogue, I wanted to include some smut but it seemed out of place where I wanted to put it, so that's why an epilogue may be necessary. Not sure yet.)
> 
> ETA: I’m not a historian and I don’t care if the division of kingdoms makes sense. Jon is doing what he wants to do to thank the people who actually helped him. Also, if you actually WAIT TO THE END of fic then maybe answers about going North will be explained. Bye bye if it isn’t your cuppa.’
> 
> Next Time: Jon finds letters in Dragonstone's library that send him in an emotional spiral; a visitor from the East has Jon irritated— and makes him want to punch something.


	7. are they trying to tell you something? you're missing that one final screw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya takes what she wants when Jon unknowingly (?) pushes her towards Lord Baratheon; Jon's nighttime wanderings lead to some discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write some fluff(ish) so I moved up an event that I planned to occur later to this one and then pushed the Jon vs. Daario square off (he's the visitor from the East) until next time. 
> 
> Updated tags to reflect a new relationship in this chapter.
> 
> Also, people, this is FANFICTION. It is not the end all be all and I am not a writer for HBO and don't pretend to be anything other than someone who liked Jon and Dany and wanted them to have a better ending than the show, so I wrote my own. It may not make sense, it may not even be what you would like to see, but that's too bad because it's for me. This fic actually came out of a VERY specific scene that I saw in my head that I really wanted Jonerys to have and in a way it's working towards that final scene, just as an aside.
> 
> Chapter title comes from Queen's "I'm Going Slightly Mad."

“Lady Arya.”

I’m not a lady, she thought idly, studying the ship in the distance with its stag sails. She quirked her lip, her arms crossed, and turned on her heel to see Davos walking into the room of the Painted Table. “Let me guess, Lord Baratheon has sent someone here to treat with the King?”

Somehow she had become something of an advisor to her brother. She didn’t want to leave him alone after the Great Council, as much as she also wanted to get up to Winterfell. Whatever he had said or done to Sansa had done its job; her sister seemed to be out of the little whispers and scheming game. She also ate and drank with great care, which Arya thought was weird. 

It had been a couple months; she liked Dragonstone. The shame she felt when she walked its halls sometimes brought her to her knees. She had believed Sansa, she had followed her sister over the trust her brother had placed in the Dragon Queen. It was something she would regret for the rest of her life. She owed it to Dany’s children to protect them. 

Davos stepped aside and she blinked as Gendry entered, a couple of men with the Baratheon stag on their breastplates entering after him. They carried a long locked box that seemed to be quite heavy. “Gendry,” she blurted. She cleared her throat and chuckled. “I mean…Lord Baratheon.” It was so strange to think of him as a Lord.

He smiled, the same shy smile he had when he was around her; she’d seen it a lot more once he was legitimized. “Lady Stark.”

“I’m not a lady,” she said out loud. She walked to stand behind one of the chairs. “The King is…” She really had no idea where Jon was hiding. Sometimes she went days without seeing him. She shrugged. “Honestly I don’t know where he is.”

“He’s in the nursery,” Davos said. He chuckled. “I’ll get him.” 

“I mean it’s no hurry, he just…asked for this. I finished and wanted to bring it personally.” Gendry shifted a bit. He turned to the men who ahd come with him. “Um…you guys can head out if you want.” 

“Yes my lord,” one of them said, bowing his head and leaving. 

It was just the two of them. Arya smiled, walking around the chair and to the end of the table with him. She studied the long box, wondering what could be inside. Something important enough to bring the Lord of Storm’s End down to Dragonstone, even if it wasn’t a very far trip. “So how is Storm’s End?” she asked, leaning against the table. 

He shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“So do they really call you the Storm King now?” she teased. 

He blushed and shook his head, laughing. “No, I…I graciously thanked your brother but…Stormlands doesn’t need independence. We’re happy to remain part of the kingdoms. How is the North faring with their newfound sovereignty?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Sovereignty?” The fancy word sounded funny with his Flea Bottom accent. 

“I’m learning things. The Maester at Storm’s End has been really helpful.” He sighed hard. “I’m learning all the stuff a lord needs to know. Everyone in the lands there has been…really helpful. I think me being from the smallfolk helped a lot.” 

It seemed the smallfolk and everyone, even the nobles had been so tired of the fighting and the war they were adapting fairly well to Jon’s new parameters for their rule. There was obviously going to be some tension and fighting. She knew that a couple of the houses in the West were murmuring how distasteful they found the bastard thing. Damion Lannister, the new Warden of the West, had stomped that down quickly, not wanting to once again be the kingdom that caused a war. 

Arya didn’t know how long it would last, but for now Jon was doing as best as he could. He was enacting things that Dany wanted. Promises she had made were being honored as best as he could honor them. She knew he wanted to head North. Jon needed the North like he needed air. It might have been cold and dreary for most of the year, but winter was beginning to fade. The shortest winter in known memory, the Citadel was saying, and she figured the death of the Night King had something to do with it. 

The North she knew from her childhood might have had its cold nights, but the fields were filled with flowers and the snow-capped mountains were sights to behold. She knew Jon had his secret places in the North where he would go to brood and she knew he wanted to show his children and raise his children there too. Arya looked up from where she had been rubbing her thumb on the edge of the table. “So…” She wasn’t sure what to say, awkward silence falling between them. 

Oh thank Gods, she thought, standing straight when Jon came around the curved entrance into the room. He looked exhausted. Bags under his eyes and his hair was limp in a queue at the base of his neck. “Lord Baratheon,” he greeted.

“Your Grace.”

Arya knew all of her brother’s tics and tells. He could have a mask on but there was something to give away his feelings. She saw his left eye twitch ever so slightly and glanced at his right hand, the tips tapping at the edge of his gambeson. “Lord Baratheon seems to have brought a gift,” she said.

That did something. His eyes lit up. “Oh…you finished.”

“I did, Your Grace. It was…well I think I did the best with what I remember from Mott.” Gendry unbuckled the straps around the box, letting them fall to the side. He lifted off the heavy lid and then carefully separated a layer of blue crushed velvet from whatever was within the box. 

Once he revealed the object, Arya could to help the sob that slipped from her lips, her hands instantly coming to cover her mouth. She stared at the blade that she had last seen in the hands of the one person on her list that got away. Her fingers came out before she could stop them, lightly touching the silver pommel. It seemed Jon was equally moved, stepping to the sword and placing his hands on the velvet covering. “Your Grace?” Gendry said, biting his bottom lip. “Is it…is it to your liking?”

“You knew about this?” Arya asked.

“I did.” Jon reached in and gently lifted the pommel with two hands, the muscles in his forearms straining as he gripped the heavy greatsword. Arya remembered when she was a child. The sword was taller than even her, almost as tall as Robb. Now it was held in the hands of the son who knew he would never be able to wield it. He smiled, staring up the wide quivering smoky length. “It’s just like I remembered it.”

“How did you do this?” She had no idea Gendry knew how to forge Valyrian steel. “I thought it was supposed to be magic or something?”

“Forging it, yes…no one forge the steel. No one has since the Doom.” Gendry gestured to the sword. “But reforging is…it is complicated. I remember watching Mott when I was an apprentice; he had been tasked to reforge a few various Valyrian steel objects. His Grace was also kind enough to let me task the various Maesters around the kingdoms who may have studied Valyrian history and remembered some of it.”

Incredible. She looked at her brother, who carefully set it back into the case. “What are you going to do with it? Where will Longclaw go?”

“Oh I will not wield this, no.” Jon folded the velvet back over the sword. “No, I will send this back to Winterfell, whenever you decide to go back. It wills tay there, as it should have been all along, until such time as Daeron is old enough to wield it.” He studied her curiously. His eyes darted between her and Gendry. “Unless…the Wardeness of the North has a son who may want it.”

Wardeness of the North? She scowled. “I think you and I both know that sadly, Sansa will not marry.” She had been hurt too bad to place her trust in a man again. For that Arya was sad for her. She shrugged. “I don’t know if Bran can have children now that he’s…whatever it is he is.”

Her brother merely smiled, vague and darted his eyes to Gendry one more time. She frowned. He did it again. Gendry was oblivious. “Oh!” she exclaimed, turning pink. She screwed up her face and wanted to shout at him. He merely smiled and ducked his head, carefully moving away from her, less she attack the king. She grit her teeth. “I will speak with you later.”

Gendry looked at both of them and chuckled nervously. “Your Grace, I believe we were also planning to discuss some of the educational reforms you wanted to put in place? The apprentice programs and things?” 

“Oh, yes. Of course. I can have someone show you to your rooms.” Jon looked at her again, smirking. “Arya?”

I’m going to kill you, she thought, glaring at him as she stepped by. She made sure to push him, rather hard, towards the stone wall, and delighted in the sound that he made that was almost a laugh. “Come on Gendry.” Lord Baratheon, whatever. “I’ll show you your rooms.”

They walked down the corridor in the same awkward silence as in the Painted Table room. She was going to strangle her brother. It was nice he was finding something amusing these days, but not at her expense. She felt her palms sweat a bit. Why was she nervous around Gendry of all people? Especially now? She cleared her throat. Because he wanted her to marry him and be Lady of Storm’s End and she wasn’t a lady. She wasn’t meant for castles and pretty dresses and all the things that being a lady came with—that was Sansa’s dream.

Except she was the Wardeness of the North. Queen in the North, technically, given the North’s sort-of-independence. “How is your lady sister?” 

She glanced sideways. “Ah…she’s fine, I suppose.”

“She is not the Queen in the North, then?”

“No…no Jon I don’t think would let her have that title even if she does still pretty much run Winterfell.” She had a smack meant for Sansa next time she saw her. The last letter she’d received from Winterfell, her sister had the audacity to actually complain how Jon did not let her see her niece and nephew it had been near a year since their birth. “I think Jon will let her call herself Lady of Winterfell, because Bran claims he’s no longer Lord.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be a lady.” The snap in his voice had her heart hurting. 

They stopped outside of the door to his room. She twisted the knob and pushed it open, exaggerating her bow and flourish. “Your room, _my lord_.”

“Thank you, _my lady._” It somewhat pleased her to see his irritation. She scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. He glared at her for a moment. His lovely brown eyes filled with hurt. She had caused that hurt. She ducked her head, averting her gaze to the black floor. She was sorry for it. Sorry he thought she had betrayed him somehow. He cleared his throat. “You told me you weren’t a lady and now you’re going to be the Wardeness of the North.”

“Things changed.” Queen Daenerys died. Jon went into a spiral of grief, despair, and she would never tell him, but sometimes she thought he was a bit mad. She shook her head, whispering. “My brother needed me…he…he stood up and took on a title he did not want. First King in the North and then…then King of everything else.”

“However many kingdoms we have today,” he murmured. 

There were only five, she thought, if the Stormlands had thanked him for their inedependence but remained free. The Iron Islands were not their own, they were just allowed to call themselves that, but Yara was smart enough to know she did not have the resources to survive without the help of the others. Dorne on the other hand had always pretty much been free. She took a deep breath and tried to smile. “He did it though. The bastard brother who wasn’t allowed to sit in the main hall with us during feasts. He’s king of everything…he showed me that sometimes it isn’t about what we want. It’s our duty.” And my duty is to be with my family.

He stared at her for a moment and then stepped into the room, taking off his heavy black cape and resting it on one of the chairs by the opening to the balcony. Arya loved that about Dragonstone—no matter where you turned you could gaze upon the waves. “And what would you have done if he was not king?”

“I don’t know. Explore…see things I have never seen before.” Go home. She walked over to the hearth, where a fire was already crackling. She knelt, tossing on another couple of logs. “But for now I am here. Helping my brother. Then I will go north. I will do my duty.” Father would want me to do my duty. 

Gendry turned again. She realized that he was holding himself differently. Straighter. His dark hair had grown out and dusted his forehead. He wore fitted attire with a golden stag on the black background. It was the reverse of the sigil’s colors. Bastards could do that, she thought, but he was not a bastard. Neither was Jon, although she knew that when he flew a Stark banner it was inverse. It would take time to get out of that mentality. She chewed her lower lip. “So you are going to go on to be a Lady of Winterfell then.”

“I suppose.” She stepped towards him. “Gendry…I didn’t say yes because I…because I really am not cut out for that life. Believe me…I never wanted it even as a child. You have to know that.”

“I do.”

She smield sadly and reached, taking his hands into hers. “I…I think you’re the only boy…_man_ that I ever really…entertained feelings for.” She was too busy trying to survive. While Sansa had had the luxury at her age of pining after boys and dreaming of her wedding, Arya had never been interested. She supposed at some point her parents would have discussed a match. She thought it was funny that Father had been discussing marriage of Sansa to Robert Baratheon’s family and here it was, Stark and Baratheon again. 

“But you don’t want to be with me.”

“No…I…” She furrowed her brow. “Things changed, I told you that.” And things changed again. Her eyes dropped to his lips. He was biting them again. Nervous habit, just like her. She gripped his hands tight. “I don’t think I can be Lady of Storm’s End because I can barely be Wardeness of the North, but…but if you…if you can forgive me…”

He frowned. “Forgive? Arya, there’s nothing to forgive.” He shook his head slightly and smiled quickly. His grip tightened on her hands. “I shouldn’t have asked like I did…I should have realized. You were right. You said it even back when I found out you were Arya Stark and not Arry. I just…I was so happy. You and me and…and he won and then Queen Daenerys was making me legitimate and telling me I could have the home I’d always wanted and I wanted you to be part of that home.”

Her heart clenched. All she wanted was a home too. It seemed that was all anyone wanted. She sniffed. “I was so mean to her,” she whispered. She closed her eyes. Guilt overwhelmed her sometimes. “I got caught up in it all…I didn’t see the North was…how they were treating her.”

“You all treated her so bad.” Gendry scowled. “She lost a dragon for you guys. I was there in the North. I saw her when she came back and…and I saw her when they brought your brother in from the cold. The queen loved him.” He smirked. “And you may not want to hear it but…that boat was pretty small. We knew what they were doing.”

She made a face. “Gross.”

He laughed. He glanced at her lips and then up to her eyes. His cheeks turned pink. She smiled, squinting. “Um…can I…can I kiss you? Because I really want to and I don’t want to just guess…_mpffff_”

Sometimes Gendry really was thick, she thought, grabbing the back of his neck and yanking him down to her mouth. She smiled against his lips. It was just as she remembered. She made a sound that might very well have been a giggle as he removed her sword belt. She grabbed Needle before the sword could clatter to the ground, managing to somehow turn him around so she could put the sword on the table and at the same time nudge him towards the bed. 

He broke away quickly, eyes widening at a thought. “Gods…your brother…what if he finds out?”

“Something tells me that my brother already assumes this is what’s happening.”

“What!?”

She rolled her eyes and pushed him onto the bed.

~/~/~/~/~

Arya had disappeared with Lord Baratheon not long after he’d asked her to take the Lord to his chambers. Jon thought they might like to talk as it had been a bit long since the Great Council and he thought they had been in communication then. Arya needed someone near to her age to talk to, because he certainly wasn’t good company. He had figured that Lord Gendry would emerge after their discussion, but he hadn’t heard a thing from the Baratheon men about their lord and Arya hadn’t shown herself either.

He asked Davos where they might be, but his confidant had merely studied him for a moment and said, “I think they’re catching up.”

Whatever that was supposed to mean. 

So Jon had retired to his rooms. He had Daeron in his arms, the little boy not wanting to sleep, preferring to gum at his dragon egg and try to kick his sister in her sleep. They were no longer in the same cradle now that they had grown so much, but when it stormed out, like it was now, Jon knew that they preferred to be together to comfort each other. He stared out the arched windows at the swirling rain and winds beyond the island, lightly bouncing Daeron against his chest.

Maybe they needed a walk or something. That might get the boy to fall back asleep. At the moment he was chewing on the loosened laces of Jon’s tunic, babbling to himself. “I wish I could teach you Valyrian,” he said, hiking the baby up on his chest. Gods their first name day was approaching. What was he supposed to do for that? 

He left the room, figuring they could wander the corridors for a bit, leaving Lyella under the watchful eye of one of the Dothraki guards. “We need to let them go home soon,” he told his son, stroking at his thick silvery curls. They had done their duty to their _khaleesi_. The same went for the Unsullied. They were all free and yet they chose to stay here, protecting and serving her children. He would have to speak to Grey Worm soon though. They weren’t meant to stay on this island for the rest of their lives.

And whenever he went North, it would be the same. They did not need to come with him. “I know what they say about your papa,” he said to Daeron. The baby cooed, taking his fingers and shoving them into his mouth, peering up with his wide purple eyes. He smiled, brushing a kiss to Daeron’s soft forehead. “They think I’m mad. Mad for wanting to leave this place and go North. It’s my home.” It was where Dany had been shunned, he thought darkly. He cleared his throat. “The North doesn’t trust outsiders…they didn’t trust her. The free folk did. The free folk loved her. She believed in the thing that killed them and drove them from their home. The True North.” That was what Tormund called it. It was where Ghost was happiest, roaming free beyond the Wall. 

That was where they would go for now. Just for a bit. Dragonstone was theirs and it would always remain theirs. It was starting to get warmer though, as winter faded away. He was not meant for the South. The blood of the dragon might run through him, but he had the heart of a wolf. He would go to the True North with his children. Teach them to hunt, fish, and shoot. Climb trees and dig through caves. He smiled just thinking about it. 

And one day they would go across to Essos. He would show them where their mother grew up. Braavos and Volantis and Pentos. They would go see where she liberated slaves and learned to rule. They would stay in Vaes Dothrak, the place where she became the leader and the woman he fell in love with. There was a future for them and he would make sure she was in their future, as much as possible. 

He found himself entering the wide double doors that led to Dragonstone’s library. The library at Winterfell had always been an off-limits location for him, the place where Maester Luwin trained the Stark children. He could only sit when they were there, but beyond that it was not a place for the bastard. He was supposed to be in the yard, learning to train and fight so one day he could either take on a role as a knight or go to the Wall. 

Dragonstone’s libraries had been purged by Melisandre, Davos told him when he’d asked if there were any remaining items in the castle that belonged to the Targaryens who originally traveled over. The dragon eggs he’d located might be just some of the secrets within the castle’s walls and Jon wanted to learn more. Well, as much as he could if there was anything left from when the castle was merely a trading outpost before the Doom. 

He wandered through the dusty aisles; disappointed to find there weren’t many books he could even read. Anything else was in old Valyrian, maybe even Melisandre couldn’t read it. He touched the spines, his fingers leaving imprints in the thick layers of dirt and years of dust buildup. Daeron reached for a piece of parchment, his chubby fingers trying to grab for the distracting object. “No,” he chuckled, moving the scroll from the baby’s fingers. “Not for you. Not a toy.” 

The baby squealed, kicking his feet out, so Jon shifted him in his arms and let him chew on his finger, flinching slightly at the little nubby teeth biting on his hand. Jon turned a corner around one of the shelves, coming to a large desk carved from the obsidian that made up the castle. Dragons and other mythical creatures carved into the structure. He wondered how they could have done that; magic, he supposed.

He took a seat behind the desk. It was cold, as the fire hadn’t been lit in weeks. Maybe years, he couldn’t answer if anyone had even been in here since they arrived. He looked at the desk. There were various scrolls covering the surface. He picked up one with his freehand and his heart clenched when he recognized Dany’s neat writing. It was in Valyrian. He lightly fingered her signature at the bottom. Or rather he assumed it was her signature. 

Very carefully he tore at the bottom of the parchment and rolled up the bit, tucking it into his pocket. He kissed Daeron’s head for reassurance. He wished he had a painting of her or something. A sketch to show them just how beautiful their mother was. Maybe somewhere in Essos they had done an image of her. For now, her smudged signature would have to do. He opened a couple of the drawers, nothing but dust escaping. At one point Daeron sneezed, surprised at the action and crying a bit. He comforted his son with a kiss to his cheek and nuzzle to his neck, getting the smile to emerge. 

He smiled himself and looked at the main drawer of the desk. “You know,” he whispered, bouncing the baby. “Your Uncle Robb used to be sweet on a girl from the village. He would write her and she would write him. She was just a smallfolk so he couldn’t have his mother know…so…” he trailed off, eyebrow arching and kneeling onto the floor. With one hand he patted at the bottom of the desk. Robb used to hide the small scrolls under the desk in his room. He’d notch them in the crack between the drawer and the back. 

On his knees he crawled under, still somehow holding Daeron, who was now almost sideways, giggling at the movement like it was a game. He frowned and figured there was nothing there. He was just rummaging around. It was his castle after all. He pushed on the side of the inside of the desk to move backwards out from the little alcove when he heard something snag. Like a catch or a spring releasing. He backed out from the alcove and glanced at something sticking from the side of the desk. 

“Huh.”

One of the carved dragons on the stone had flames emerging from his mouth. The flames had shot out straight from the side, forming a handle. Dragonstone and its secrets, he figured, tugging on the handle. The obsidian was stuck slightly and incredibly heavy. He looked at Daeron and set him down, the baby sitting up on the floor and watching with his little mouth forming an ‘o’ as Jon tugged with two hands. He fell backwards, coughing at the dust emerging from the side of the desk, the dragon carving almost a door, revealing a small hiding space. 

“Ooh!” Daeron exclaimed, lurching forward to grab at a scroll. 

“Ah!” Jon yelped. He had no idea what was in there. He scooped up the baby, holding him under one arm and peered in. There was a pile of yellowed parchment, brittle and cracked. Many were bound up in pieces of twine. He fell onto his heels, taking out one of the scrolls. He blew gently on it as he slowly unfurled, hoping it did not break. It creaked from being unrolled for the first time in probably decades. 

Were these scrolls from the dragonlords that used to live here? From kings and queens like Jaeherys and Alysanne, who ruled from Dragonstone over King’s Landing? Maybe even from Maesters of old? He blinked at the writing on the scroll, relieved to see it was Common Tongue. It must have been recent. Maybe it was from Stannis or something. He hoped not, he wasn’t sure he wanted to read whatever that dour man wanted to say. 

He scanned the first line and let out a strangled gasp, realizing within moments just what he held in his hands. _My dear nephew Rhaegar, I was pleased to receive your last scroll, for it is cold and dreary up here for an old man such as myself and news from the South pleases me so these dark days…_ “Maester Aemon,” he whispered. He closed his eyes against the surge of emotion. Oh gods, he had not really thought of it before. The old man who had been like the grandfather he’d never had…a Targaryen who was his…his great-great-uncle, he wondered. Was that it? 

Another letter he opened, whispering. “My dear niece Rhaella…” They were letters from Aemon to his family. He opened up another and closed his eyes, sobbing out. _Dearest Mother…_

I can’t sit here on this cold floor and read these, he thought, looking down at Daeron, who was starting to doze off. He gathered them up, all the letters and held them carefully against him as he also cuddled Daeron close. He would come back for the ones he couldn’t grasp. He hurried back to his rooms and once inside he placed Daeron down. 

Lyella, unfortunately, was awake then, her arms up and wanting him, cooing. He smiled and lifted her, taking her to the bed and resting her on his chest as he began to read. He read everything. The words swam in his mind. His eyes grew itchy from focusing on the tiny old writing, some of it smudged and faded from the years of being hidden. The candles around him dripped into nothing and by the time he had finished, he was spinning into nothing, frozen from the overwhelming grief, pain, and want for a family he never knew.

He picked up one, sniffing and staring at Aemon’s words to his nephew…Jon’s father…Rhaegar Targaryen. _My nephew I have written to you on this topic before and we have debated endlessly on the merits of the arguments. What is duty compared to a woman’s love? You are the Crown Prince and you owe it to your kingdom to maintain the peace and to produce heirs, to take on the mantle of leadership…you love this Lyanna Stark with all your heart as you say and I do not doubt your love, for you love so deeply dear nephew, much like I did at your age. You must choose and choose wisely, for your choice may be your doom…_

There was another one, from his…from his grandmother…Rhaella. The woman Jaime Lannister may have loved more than his own sister. The good and dutiful queen who was beloved by the realm. “She was scared,” he whispered. She wrote to Rhaegar, who must have been on Dragonstone at the time of the writing. Saying she prayed for a healthy child, she wanted another daughter, one who would live. She feared for Viserys, who had survived another beating from his king father. A quiet little boy, she wrote, and she worried for his mind, fearing Aerys might break him. 

Viserys, the Beggar King, who sold his sister. Dany spoke to him of her brother, how she missed the boy he had been, when he wanted to protect her and when he did everything he could to keep them safe. “He sold our mother’s crown and that’s when the light inside of him died,” she told him, one terrible night on the boat, when they had confessed to each other about their less than desirable upbringings. 

Jon hugged his daughter tight, his arms wrapping over her small body. He closed his eyes against tears. Where are you, he wondered, looking out at the rising sun in the distance. “Dany?” he whispered. He wanted her here with him. He wanted to hear her voice and feel her warmth. 

The same fears Rhaella had for her children, he had for his. The same debate Rhaegar had confessed to Aemon, he had had to battle with himself. He wished Aemon was there. The blind old man was a comfort at Castle Black. Someone who had cast the deciding vote for him as Lord Commander and who trusted him. Who had imparted all the wisdom Jon hadn’t realized he needed. Where Jeor showed him what it was to be a commander, Aemon showed him what it was to be human.

He picked up the one letter though that he thought truly had broken him. He stared at the writing. It was so strange…it looked like how he wrote. “How is that possible,” he murmured, seeing the same familiar slant to the letters. The way the ‘y’ curled off and the bare hint of a dot on the ‘i.’ Things that he had done that had almost gotten his hand smacked by Luwin’s pointer stick, because it was not proper handwriting.

_Mother, I am beside myself with grief…I do not regret the love Lyanna and I have shared, but I regret what our love has caused. The misunderstandings and the confusion of our marriage, our decision to leave behind our responsibilities…every decision I have never made has dictated my life and for once I wanted to make a choice that was for me and of course I see now that it was the one that has caused the most damage…Lyanna wrote her family, but they either did not receive the raven or ignored it or…it does not matter…when I fight Robert Baratheon I will return to King’s Landing and I will deal with Aerys…my father is not a man we need for this kingdom and I will do my duty to it…what I write is treason and is the worst crime one can commit, but I will do it…I will kinslay and kingslay if it means I can have my family…just a piece of my family…_

Jon scanned the lines, over and over again, and he choked again on the bottom paragraph. His breath coming in hitching gasps. _I hope our child looks like Lyanna, mother, for she is truly the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and it is not how her hair falls over her shoulder or the smile that lights up the world like sunshine…it is how she will spar with Oswell or try to get Ser Gerold into a disagreement…she rides as though she were born on a horse and she can best even Ser Barristan in combat, I believe. Even heavy with our child she insists on doing things the way she did before…each insult to me for the color of my eyes or hair makes me fall in love with her more…I hope our child has her spirit and her fight…I fear my melancholy and thoughts of the future weigh too much and such brooding as Lyanna refers would be too much on a child…Mother I could not bear if I were to die and she were to die for the crime of loving me…she wants to name the child Aegon if we have a boy, for she is certain it will be a boy, but I am partial to the name Jon, for my dear friend Jon Connington…maybe even Arthur, but whatever Lyanna wants…_

It shattered him. It sent him spiraling into the sea, the thoughts racing through his mind, everything he had ever known about himself was a fucking _lie_. He was raised a bastard, but he was actually _wanted._ His mother and his father _wanted_ him and they argued over what to _name_ him. He had asked Ned once why his name was Jon, because it was such a boring and simple name compared to Robb for the King or Sansa or Arya for famous Stark matriarchs. He just assumed he had a simple name because he was a bastard—Ned would never give him a Stark name, whether first or last.

Ned had stared at him for a moment and then said that he was named for Jon Arryn, his mentor. Jon had thought that fine, but reading this now…obviously he could not go around being called Aegon, but maybe Lyanna had also told her brother to call him Jon, because that was what Rhaegar wanted. _Gods_. He wanted so badly to ask them questions. To shake and hit and kick and scream at these people who had decided his future before he had even taken his first breath. 

He shook, still reading the final imparting words of his father to Rhaella. _…I have heard from some in the castle that Aerys wants to have another child, Mother. I pray to the Seven and Lyanna prays to her Old Gods that if that should happena gain that your birth this time is without incident and there is a healthy babe, if only so you do not have another broken heart. I cannot bear how many times he has hurt you and how many times it has resulted in nothing but more pain. Perhaps one day I will have a little sister. Seven hells, would that not be a sight? My son and my little sister betrothed? I know that father wanted to pair Viserys with Rhaenys and maybe Aegon with a future daughter…I think it would be nice if perhaps a little brother could be friends with my son. They could spar and train together. I would like a little sister, may the Mother hear me. I will pass along your love to your future grandchild when I see Lyanna again. Soon I will march on to face Robert in battle, I hope my training will have to suffice…_

Reading it again…he began to sob. He clutched his daughter to his chest, crying into her dark hair. This could very well have been the last thing his father ever wrote to someone. He wondered where the letters were that Rhaegar wrote to Lyanna. Probably destroyed at the Tower of Joy in Dorne. 

They loved him. His parents loved him and they wanted him to be happy. Rhaegar wanted to name him Jon and he wanted to have a little sister and maybe one day that little sister would marry his son…Jon could hardly stand it. Everything that had ever happened was because his parents fell in love and no one believed it actually had happened that way. 

And everything that had happened since he walked into the throne room at Dragonstone had been because he loved Dany. And she loved him. He kissed Lyella’s temple, getting up and carrying her to her brother. He knelt and placed them in their bed together, his arms around them both. “You are wanted,” he whispered to them. They may have been a surprise to him. They may have been born out of marriage vows. They may have been the one thing that he never knew he wanted, but they were certainly wanted. “Your mother loved you and I love you. You’re mine. You’re Dany’s.”

For the next however many hours he did not know, he held his babies, who cooed and pulled on his hair and Lyella, sweet little Lyella, wiped her tiny sticky hands on his cheeks, wiping at his tears. He laughed, kissing her fists and folding them up into his hand. He closed his eyes and felt her close. _I love you and I always have. I’ll see you soon, come North and I’ll be there…I swear it. I am yours and you are mine._

He smiled and felt her lips brush across his forehead. “Dany,” he breathed. He turned his face and saw her, fading away, a sad smile on her lips. Her voice brushed across him again, light as a feather.

_Choose love Jon. For once in your life…choose love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Daario comes to seek revenge for Dany when he finds out she died; when he finds out that Jon is King, he's not really happy; Dark Jon makes an appearance; Jon and Davos talk about Jon's decision to head North and what that means for the kingdoms.
> 
> There's only like two more chapters I think and then I'm done with this fic.
> 
> As another aside, I'm working on a Halloween-y one-shot that allows me to exorcise my "Someone Needs to Kill Sansa" thoughts, so that should be posted closer to then.


	8. if we are true to ourselves, we can not be false to anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitors from Meereen ignite the dragon in Jon and a friend returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very long chapter to make up for the fact that it's really late. Only a couple more left til the end. Two at least, maybe an epilogue to make it three.

_Where am I?_

It was the waterfalls he’d come to as a kid. He stood before them, staring at the cold water in the pool below them. The spray from the falls was cool against his warm skin. _He was warm?_ It was the _North_. How was it warm? He turned and realized the snowpack around the falls had melted, revealing soft grass and the occasional patch of wildflowers. 

He knelt, plucking one of the small flowers, staring at the vibrant purple. It looked like the color of her eyes, he thought with a tiny smile, lightly touching the thin petals. He looked around again, remembering as a child, a summer child as Nan would refer to them as, that yes, the falls here were free from snow. Well, mostly. Snow still capped the high mountains and he could make out the occasional glacier on the mountains in the distance, even higher than these. 

As a kid he would escape here, because here he wasn’t the Bastard of Winterfell. He was just Jon. A kid who would shoot his slingshot at squirrels and chase birds from their nests. When he got older and stronger, he’d climb the trees as high as he could and sit above everything and wonder what was beyond. He would ride his horse through the wolfswood and practice archery and occasionally go hunting. Never with Robb or Theon. He preferred to be alone when he came here. It was just his. 

He would lay in the grass and stare at the clouds. Wonder if his mother was staring at them too. Now he knew she was the clouds and so was his father, long dead, her bones in the crypts beneath his home and the bones of his father thrown somewhere along the Trident, no doubt given nothing but disrespect in death.

_Why am I here?_

_Where are the twins?_

It felt so real. The warmth of the sun, the coolness of the spray, and the soft feeling of his boots in the grass. He reached to his chest, surprised to see he wasn’t in his normal clothes at Dragonstone, but in a loose linen shirt and breeches, comfortable and somewhat free. This was not suitable for the North, but it was so warm here. Springtime, he thought with a smile, turning again and gazing ahead. 

His heart skipped. _Gods_. 

“Jon,” she whispered, walking slowly towards him. She carried a clutch of blue winter roses in her hand, the petals stark sapphire against the loose white shift. She could have been a winter goddess, he thought, with her hair the color of moonlight and her skin a pink-tinged cream, the shift as white as snow. Her hair fluttered over her shoulders, loose from tight braids and intricate styling. She stood before him, smiling long and slow, her violet eyes dancing with awe and love. 

Mine, he thought possessively, his arm reaching to wrap around her, tugging her against him as he stared at her bright red lips, reaching with his free hand to trace their outline. His breath caught as she closed her eyes, dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks. Her breath was warm and real. “How is this real?” he whispered, leaning in against her and hesitantly touched his forehead against hers. She was solid and real beneath him. Her breasts rose and fell against his chest and he dropped his fingers to touch the slope of her left one, his eyes closing tight as he felt the reassuring thud beneath them. “This can’t be.”

It wasn’t a dream; it was too real. He could smell the flowers and the lemons and the grass. He could hear her heartbeat and her breath and the wind enveloping them. Dreams couldn’t be this real. He was really here and he really felt her. She smiled, angling her lips over his, her voice a soft sight. “It is real…you’re not mad, as much as they may think you are.”

“I am mad,” he laughed, his hands cupping her face and his thumbs roughly dragging across the smoothness beneath. “I am mad because you are supposed to be gone. I’ve been so alone.”

She sighed and brushed her lips to his again. Barely a whisper. “We could stay a thousand years.” She lifted her eyebrows, teasing. “No one would ever find us.” We should have stayed there, he thought, closing his eyes again. Regret and pain filled him, but with the touch of her fingers on his heart, he felt it trickle away. He gripped at her hand, squeezing the slim fingers tight. “We can stay here. I’ll be here always.”

“You are mine,” he whispered. 

“Together.” 

“Always.” 

And then it felt like he was being dragged away, someone had a grip on his shoulder and he wouldn’t let her go. _Nononononono._ She smiled again and let go of his hand, whispering. _I’m here, I’ll be here waiting._

~/~/~/~/~

_Your Grace!_

Jon lurched forward in the bed, heaving his breath and blinking through black spots in his eyes. _Where am I?_ He still felt the warmth of her hand in his and the burn of her fingers on his heart. He reached to touch and could have sworn there had been pressure on the scar. He turned his hand over and expected to see the flowers she’d been holding. He could still smell them. The blue winter roses, like chips of ice, clutched in her hand and reminding him of his home, the heady floral scent still trapped with him. 

He turned, tangled in the furs and realizing he was sweating and could barely catch his breath. He touched his throat. He was so thirsty. He heard crying and looked through the open door to the nursery, seeing one of the Dothraki women comforting Daeron, who screamed and reached for him, while Lyella babbled and tried to get the attention of people around her. He flung the furs back and got to his feet, but he was wobbly and reached out, one hand going to the wall and the other caught by Davos. “What happened?” he rasped, still blinking away the memory of the dream.

_It didn’t feel like a dream._

“I heard you screaming in your sleep,” Davos said. He was concerned, looking up at him. “Are you sure you’re all right? I can call a Maester…”

“No I’m fine,” Jon stumbled to the basin in the corner and splashed water against his face. He looked up, the droplets falling in rivulets through his beard and back to the basin. He gripped the edge of the basin and blinked a few more times. “Screaming?”

“Were you having a nightmare? One of the Dothraki called for me, heard you crying out like you were in pain.” Davos’s brows were pushed into a thick bushy gray line on his forehead. “I know you don’t sleep so whatever it was must have been quite frightening for you to not wake up from it on your own. You were in a trance of some sort…I could hardly get you to wake.”

That explained the pain in his shoulder, he thought, lightly touching at it. He shook his head, sighing. “No…it was nothing.” He turned away from Davos, not wanting to discuss it more. It really didn’t feel like a dream. He didn’t want to wake from it, whatever it was. She was in his arms as real as she was before he pushed her away. The last time they were at the falls. _I wish you had never told me._ I wish I never knew. He entered the nursery and took Daeron from the Dothraki nurse, thanking her and turning his attention to the children.

He calmed Daeron down with muttered nonsense against his silver hair while Lyella babbled to him about whatever she was thinking, tugging on her toes and rocking back and forth in her crib. He lightly stroked her dark hair, staring out to the sea. He frowned. There was something in the distance. “Davos?” he called.

“Yes Your Grace?”

“Were we expecting anyone?”

“Not that I’m aware.” Davos entered the room and smiled down at Lyella, who immediately squealed at the sight of him. He leaned in and lifted her up. “Well hello there little lass, how are you this fine morning?” 

I don’t know if fine is the right word, Jon thought, staring at the ships approaching Dragonstone. They were on the horizon now. Would be there in a few hours. He glanced sideways at Davos. “They’re from the East,” he murmured. He thought of the dream. His heart lurched. _Could it be her?_ He closed his eyes. You are a fucking fool Jon Snow. It wasn’t her. 

_People come back, like you._

No, it was too late for her. Drogon took her away. Her son took her to be buried somewhere or to burn her himself. There was no coming back, because the world was not that kind to him. He sighed and shook his head, not wanting to deal with whatever this new development happened to be. He wanted to go back to that dream. He would soon, he vowed. He would go North. They could stay at those waterfalls for a thousand years. His children would play there like he did and they would never know pain.

He set Daeron onto the carpet in his room while he dressed and while Davos kept Lyella occupied. He looked down at his son while he was lacing up his tunic, smiling at the sight of his son holding onto one of the chairs, his legs slightly bowed, but strong and sturdy. He stopped his dressing and wanted to burst into tears. It should have been a happy moment. His son was close to taking his first steps and his mother should be there. 

“Look at you,” he whispered, kneeling to Daeron’s height. He took his hands and stood, but remained bowed over so he could help him should he decide to walk. He encouraged him with a few words and Daeron giggled, one step…two step…he squealed, plopping backwards onto his bottom and laughing. He chuckled. “Not yet I guess.”

He wanted to stay with them all day today, but unfortunately, he sighed, gazing out at the approaching ships with sails that held no Westerosi sigil, he would have to attend to kingly duties. He looked over at Davos. “Get the children, a couple Unsullied, and one of the Dothraki nurses and guards down to the east wing.” It was in case there was any danger. The children would immediately be ferried to the other side of the island, to await further passage to the mainland and to Storm’s End. 

While the others hurried to protect the twins, he strapped on his weapons and made his way to the room of the Painted Table to watch as Davos went out to meet the ships and find out what they wanted before returning. He leaned against the open arch, the toes of his boots mere inches from the edge. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

~/~/~/~/~

“They’re from Meereen. The leader of the group is the head of the Second Sons.”

Daario Naharis, Jon thought darkly, walking through the back corridors to where he usually slipped into the throne room, where Davos insisted he always take his first meetings with newcomers to the island. He paused at the split, where he would go to watch as Davos introduced them to the room and told them to wait. Jon liked to make them uncomfortable. It was a technique he’d learned from Dany, who would sit silently for so long people would start to spill their secrets. He also noted it was something Sansa tended to do. Let people talk themselves into their grave. 

He glanced at Davos in the dim tunnel. “Show them in,” he said. He went to slip into the room and stood behind the throne, listening. It was quiet. Until the doors pushed open and the sound of footsteps and clinking metal filled the wide triangular-shaped room. He knew they would have no weapons, but he didn’t trust anyone. 

“Where is Queen Daenerys?” a voice demanded. “We have heard…rumors in Meereen. You assured us we would be met with the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I did,” Davos answered the person. “I just didn’t say it would be Queen Daenerys.”

“So it’s true then.”

“I will allow our ruler to answer that.”

“And who might that person be? If something has happened to Daenerys Stormborn, the Second Sons will make sure she is avenged.”

Davos chuckled. “You have shown up on this island unannounced, demanding an audience with the queen, and you have been nothing but demanding of our time and energies.”

“Why were our weapons taken?” another voice asked.

“For your protection,” Davos said. He chuckled. “His Grace does not take to being threatened. You may be lucky to leave with your head.”

There was a murmur in Valyrian among the group. The voice of Daario, it had to be Daario Jon thought, spoke again. “His Grace? So there’s a King who has taken over Daenerys’s throne? Where are her dragons? Did he kill them as well?”

I have heard enough, Jon thought, moving around from behind the throne. “They are dead,” he announced. His surprise appearance had the group stepping back quickly, save for Davos, who was simply amused. There were five of them. Two that looked battle-tested and three that were wearing the fancy robes of the East stood somewhat apart from each other in the center of the room. Tokars, Dany called them, and said how annoying they were to wear so she chose to ignore the favored Ghiscari noble outfit for outfits easier to move around in, at least for a female. 

He stared at the man who had to be Daario. Clad in armor and with a red scarf-like adornment to the bottom of the armor. Dark hair swept from his face on both sides and hard eyes staring straight at him. The others recognized they stood in the presence of royalty and bowed their heads slightly, but Daario stared at him, unblinking. “Where is the Queen?” he demanded again. He gripped for something on his belt, but found no weapon there. 

He hadn’t heard much of this sellsword, who Dany told him she had taken to her bed because he was attractive, wanted to please her, and she was somewhat bored and wanted the touch of another. I was also sad, she’d admitted to him, during one of those nights on the boats when they confessed everything to each other. She’d put her dragons away and Drogon was gone. She just wanted a distraction. 

Jon was not jealous of the man who had shared his Dany’s bed; he was mostly irritated at his presence. He stared straight ahead, unmoved by the sellsword’s attempt to show off his strength or whatever it was he was trying to do. He squinted. “You came here without sending notice,” he said. 

“Didn’t realize that I had to, I was hoping to see Queen Daenerys.” Daario glared at him. “We may not hear much from Westeros in Meereen, but we hear enough. Rumors have made their way from the Free Cities. They say that she is dead. We came to see for ourselves. To bring word from Dragon’s Bay about the process there and…” he trailed off and set his jaw. “Kill whomever was responsible for her death.”

“That person is dead.”

The scowling, arrogant face of Daario dropped for a moment. Replaced with pain. “So it’s true? She is gone?”

“Yes.” 

Daario took a few steps forward, but Grey Worm made a move to cut him off. He glared at the Unsullied commander. “I remember when I joined your company and now you try to stop me?” 

Grey Worm smirked. “I serve King Aegon, not you.”

“Aegon? So that’s your name? Like the conqueror.”

“Just like him,” Jon whispered. He leaned back into the throne, tapping his fingers on the armrest. 

Daario reached for his weapon, his hand clenching in frustration when he did not find it there. He jabbed a finger up at him, shouting in anger. “You! You’re a Usurper! You stole her crown!”

He squinted at the tiny man in front of him; from this height it seemed like he was tiny, at least. He released a long sigh, the dragon rumbling inside of him. Itching for a fight. Anger at many things he could not control and a need to release the anger. He had grown up with no recourse for his anger and it had built and built until such time he could let it out. Usually it was just him going out to the waterfalls and screaming and flinging arrows and pretending he really was the Lord of Winterfell or Daeron the Young Dragon. Now though he could let go of the anger if he felt it necessarily. He drew to his feet and began to slowly make his way down the glass staircase, hands in front of him and his voice echoing in the hall.

“Usurper? I am no Usurper, Daario Naharis.” He glared at the little troupe from Meereen. “I am King Aegon Targaryen, the Bastard of Winterfell, the White Wolf, and whatever else they call me, to my face and behind my back.” He came toe to toe with the other man, glaring at him and the dragon flashing fire. “But above all else I am the only one who has any claim to avenge Daenerys of House Targaryen and she has been avenged.” He snarled over his gnashed teeth like the wolf fighting with the dragon inside. “So you can return to Meereen and continue upholding her wishes.” He paused at the quick flash in Daario’s eyes. “Unless…” He cocked his head. “You cannot?”

The other man continued to scowl. He gripped at his empty weapon belt. “Meereen is hanging on as best as it can.” He nodded to the other men. “These are nobles from Astapor and Yunkai as well as Meereen.” He did not elaborate, simply grit his teeth and stressed again. “I need to avenge her, point me where I can be of use.”

He folded his arms behind him, tapping his right fingers against his left wrist. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

“Who didn’t?”

“Most of the Seven Kingdoms,” he murmured. He glanced over at the others. There was something off, but he couldn’t place it. The way they did not meet his gaze. Perhaps they just simply had never thought to meet another Targaryen. He certainly was not what they used to, if they had met Dany. He glanced at Daario. “You brought this group here to treat with her even though you thought her dead?”

Something did not make sense to him. Daario did not elaborate beyond a snap. “They have proven their loyalty and I am a hard man to convince.” 

“Very well. As I said, you came for nothing. If you truly loved her, you will depart these shores, return to Meereen and continue her good work.” Jon did not want this man or the others anywhere near his children. Or his island. These were men who formerly enslaved people. Dany told him the stories of what she’d seen. The crucified children. Burning the masters alive. Killing a man who killed a master. Sons of the Harpy. All the chaos she’d tried to fix, she’d tried to rule, and she had done so successfully. He nodded to them. “I will meet with you before you depart, but for now…” He glanced at Daario. “You will remain on the ship.”

Daario’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“I don’t know you. I don’t trust you.”

“Fine, but at least tell me how she…” The other man’s voice threatened to crack. He drew himself back up. “Tell me how she died. How they killed her.”

Jon stared at him for a brief moment. “Poison. Childbirth. It could have been either.”

“Ch—child?” That was what Jon had wanted to do. He wanted to see the other man’s reaction to the news. It did its purpose. He did really love her, Jon thought, but he also saw the terror in his eyes. “Um…how…how old…she said she couldn’t…”

So much for that undying love, Jon thought with a smirk. “Don’t fear Lord Naharis. You were not the father.”

“She…she was supposed to marry…she said she would probably marry.”

“She did,” he lied. He always had tried to be honorable. As a king he learned that it was not always as necessary a quality as he had thought. The dragon lied; the wolf told the truth. 

Daario threw his hands out. “Well? Where is this husband?”

“You’re looking right at him.”

It pleased Jon immensely, although he knew it probably shouldn’t, at how upset this made the sellsword. “You!?” Daario exploded. He covered it and crossed his arms over his chest, clearly angered. He looked around the hall for a moment and his shoulders lifted again. “Where are the dragons?”

“Two are dead. The other is in the East, surprised you haven’t seen him.” The dragons of course were bound to become a topic of conversation. There were many times he had to remind his queen that she was the reason she was a queen, not dragons. Fire raged at the idea that this man claimed to love her but could not see her without thinking of her children.

“So she has no more dragons?” Daario seemed bothered by that. He shook his head and whispered, almost to himself. “She was nothing without the dragons.”

I should kill you for that alone, he thought, taking a step forwards, but he saw Davos throw his hand out to the side, silently warning him. He turned away from the sellsword to prevent the need to destroy him from becoming stronger. His right hand cramped, he was holding it so tight on the hilt of Longclaw. He waited a moment and spoke, loud and final. “Return to Meereen. You want to avenge her, you will do as she demanded. In perpetuity.” A brief smile. _It means forever._

A wave of his hand to the Unsullied and Daario, still shouting that this wasn’t over yet, he would have his revenge for the queen, and the protests of the others in the delegations. He drowned them out, waited for the doors to shut. He raked his hands through his hair, knocking the knot he’d twisted his hair into askew. He tugged at the tie, threading it through his fingers and reached back to fix his hair. He glanced at Grey Worm, who was scowling. “You don’t like him?” It was obvious.

“No.”

“He’s arrogant, yes.” He paused. Glanced at the other man. This was…he felt stupid. His cheeks burned. He barely whispered, only Grey Worm could hear. “Did she love him?”

The Unsullied commander’s hand lifted and lightly dropped to his shoulder. He closed his eyes at the comfort. “No,” he answered. He was often nervous of speaking in Common Tongue, but the words he chose now were the right ones. “She left sellword. She love you.” He waited another moment and briefly smiled. “Queen Daenerys…she love you very, very much.”

His heart lurched into his throat and he nodded, lightly patting the other man’s hand. “_Kirimvose._ He smiled. “_Issa raqiros._

Grey Worm smiled vaguely. He nodded. “My friend, yes.” He folded his arms over his chest and looked to his feet before lifting his dark eyes again. Jon knew what the commander was planning to say, he likely would not like it. 

So he simply nodded. “Yes.”

“You go North?” He shook his head, quiet. “I do not. We…not welcome.”

It panged him. Shamed him more than anything that his people, the people he had grown up with, were so small-minded and downright cruel to the outsiders. There was not trusting outsiders and there was pure hatred of anything foreign. He had discovered it was the latter, during their visit north. He was ashamed of how he had allowed their mistreatment to occur. They were good people. No different than anyone, but because they did not share Northern looks or behave in a Northern manner, they must have been evil. 

They died for you, he thought darkly, closing his eyes against the desire to write his brother and sister in the North and let them know his fury. He nodded in understanding. Grey Worm had served him when he did not have to, after Dany’s death. Jon would not prevent him from doing what he wanted. “You go north, you have red man and wild people.” That was a way to explan it, he thought with a small chuckle. Grey Worm continued. “We must go to protect others.”

And he knew that his queen would have expected nothing less from them. He nodded. Smiled again. He could feel her beside him, the comfortable weight of her fingers on his chest as she moved around to stand behind him. “Yes,” he murmured, nodding. “She would want that.” He touched at her hand, meeting her gaze, the pride in her eyes threatening to bring him to his knees. Bury his head against her and never let her go. He squeezed her fingers, feeling them clench around his. “Where will you go?”

“Naath.” It came so fast. It was clear Grey Worm had been thinking of it for a long time. “Missandei home.” 

He let go of her hand, long enough to shake Grey Worm’s. There would be time for official farewells at a later date, when the others did leave, but he approved of the commander’s choice. It was a wise one to make. He let go and watched them leave. He nodded to Davos and Arya, who left him alone. 

A few moments later, as he found himself in the Painted Table room, staring at the sea and leaning against the pillar, he heard his title called softly across the silent room. “_Khal Jon._”

“Raqho.” He turned and remained leaning against the pillar. He now spoke enough Dothraki, after the many conversations with the nurses and guards, to muddle through a simple conversation with the leader of their people. He nodded to the other man. He knew why he was here. He searched for the words, finding them as best he could, the Dothraki language much easier as it was not as reliant on “You wish to return to Vaes Dothrak?”

“_Ai,_” Raqho replied. He nodded his head again. “We need to go back to the Great Grass Sea. This is not our home.”

It is not really my home either. He pushed away from the pillar and went to pour two mare’s milks for them both. The fermented drink brought him to his knees and gave him the worst headache, but it had been something of a test to earn their respect in the early days. Something Dany had told him he had to do if he wanted them to ride into battle for his cause. So he’d drank into the night with them, stumbled into her chambers that evening, and promptly passed out next to her and woke up when she poured cold water on his head the next morning, relishing in his pain. Since then he’d somewhat developed an affinity for the swill. 

He lifted the goblet to Raqho. “You will have ships, horses, and whatever you need. Davos will see to it.” 

Raqho chuckled. “Your Dothraki is shit, but I understand.” He did understand that and smiled over the rim of the goblet. He took a pull, shuddering and swallowing it down with his eyes screwed shut. The first sip was always the worst. The Dothraki leader gestured with his goblet. “You and your son and your daughter. _Khaleesi_…her son and daughter…have home with Dothraki. Always.” He smiled again. “_Naqis khaleesi ma khal._”

The little king and queen, they referred to the twins. He smiled at the affectionate names the horse lords had for the children of their _khaleesi._ She was an outsider and had turned into them. If only we gave her the chance, he thought with a regret, eyes closing in pain. He swallowed hard. “They will learn to ride and I will bring them to Vaes Dothrak.”

The bloodrider downed the rest of the mare’s milk, slammed the goblet to the table, and yanked him in by the wrist for a great bearhug. It almost knocked the wind from him, but he slapped the other man’s back and stepped back, smiling as Raqho nodded and took his leave. It seemed everyone is leaving us, but he knew why. It was time. Just like him, they were all tired of war. They just wanted peace. 

“It’s that what we always want?” he murmured.

_“Even a dragon.”_ She curved around him and rested her head on his shoulder and her arms wrapped around, her hand touching his heart. A tear dripped onto the exposed skin of his neck and he turned his face to inhale the scent of her silver curls. She turned her face to him, whispering. “_Tyrion told me that Daario was the not the first man to fall in love with me and he would not be the last…he told me in this very room you were in love with me.”_

He was a traitor, but Tyrion could have his moments. He closed his eyes and kissed her hand. “What do I do now? How do I handle these people from another world I do not understand?”

“_Like we do with anything, my love. Fire and blood.”_

~/~/~/~/~

Before the Essosi were taken back to their ships, he had ensured they receive food and drink, as well as other provisions for the evening. He would speak with them on the morrow, preferring to keep them waiting and wondering about what the new King might want from them or be willing to offer. 

So while they supped, he listened. He kept to the shadows, as was his way, and he had Arya doing the same, blending in the way only Arya Stark could do these days. He stood in one of the various passages, listening to Daario attempt to convince the other Second Sons he’d brought with him, as well as the Ghiscari nobles, why they needed to stay in Westeros. 

You stay, you die, he thought, listening intently. Daario had stood and was demanding they listen to him. “We must take revenge for Daenerys! We followed her through the desert, through the filth and we took Yunkai for her. Took Meereen! We are lords because of her!”

One of the others shook his head, one of the nobles, who merely chuckled and sipped his wine. “You care about revenge for the woman you fucked. She cannot return to stop us now.” He shared a conspiratorial look with his other traveler. “We can finally take back our cities. No dragons? No more fire. We can take what we need from this continent. Return to the trades.”

Somewhere Arya would continue to listen, but he had heard enough for now. He left the group that were feasting inside and left the castle, walking down towards the beach, where the other Second Sons were waiting to take back provisions to the ships. He paused at the beachhead, waiting for their attention before he called out. “Your leader is Daario Naharis?”

Some exchanged a look and he wondered if they didn’t speak Common Tongue. He’d have to get Grey Worm to help translate. Until someone stepped forward, a younger man with vibrant purple dyed hair. Tyroshi, he pegged, Dany had told him their love of any dye. “Yes,” the man said. He glanced at another. “For now.”

“Your other leader was the Titan’s Bastard. He lost his head to Daario Naharis, who cut it off and gave it to Queen Daenerys.” He had heard it all. The way Dany had taken what was hers, what she thought was right, and how the sellsword had crept into her chambers while she was bathing and dumped the heads of the former Second Sons’ leaders at her feet. 

_”Do you want me to do the same to woo you, my queen?”_

_”Oh Jon Snow, I am afraid you did not need to cut off heads to woo me, you did so with your blunt speak of dead men and your refusal to kneel.”_

The memory of their conversations brought a brief quirk to his lips. He glanced at the Tyroshi. “You will follow your leader to the death, knowing this is how he earned his leadership?” He continued before they could say anything further. “Do you plan on following him to your death because know that that is what will befall you if you continue.” 

Many began to exchange looks. It seemed he did not bring up a new point. The Tyroshi spoke. “He has support of former masters. We do not fight him. He is the Lord of Meereen, after all.”

“The masters will take back the city with the queen gone.”

He left the Second Sons with that thought, turned on his heel, and returned to the castle. Arya would likely be waiting for the others to return to the skiffs, so he went to his chambers, checked on the twins and found them both sleeping and clutching their eggs, and then checked on his dragon egg. It was warm and glowing. He felt like it was happy, if that was even a possibility. 

The egg returned to the fire, he stood and removed his outer leathers and boots. Set Longclaw on the desk to clean before he would pretend to sleep. He stepped onto the large terrace beyond his chambers, leaning on the wall and peering at the ships. He had to think about what he wanted to do. The Second Sons needed to maintain the peace in Dragon’s Bay, but without the dragons and without the threat of Dany’s return…he knew the shores of Westeros would be open for the slavers to target. 

“Fuck,” he cursed. He leaned his forearms on the wall, closing his eyes. Help me Dany, he silently begged. Please. He pushed up and stopped before he turned to go back inside. 

Someone was watching him. 

He frowned; he could feel the presence behind him. The heaviness in the air. The heat that began to creep up his spine. He reached out, but could not connect. It was not his connection anymore. He smirked. Very slowly, so he would not alarm the creature, he turned. He stared up at the visitor on the roof of the tower, and slowly reached his hand up in greeting.

Drogon leaned his head down; it appeared as though he had grown at least another dragon large. He was massive and his eyes blinked, each one now almost the size of a mill spool. “It is good to see you again,” he murmured, his hand slowly moving of his snout. The dragon puffed a breath, so hot it almost blew him off the balcony. He chuckled, meeting the dragon’s curious eye. “You came at a good time, my friend.” He continued to run his hand over Drogon’s maw, up to the spines that were as thick as tree trunks behind his jaw. 

The heat was pleasant until it was no longer heat. Cold, he thought, frowning and reaching to touch the mark he found on Drogon’s neck. The dragon rumbled in warning. He released his hand but continued to study the mark. It was dark and appeared to be a burn. It was cold. They appeared to almost resemble frost burns. “Were you in the North,” he wondered. 

Drogon grumbled and drew himself up, spreading his wings wide, but he did not screech or make any further sounds. He was as black as the night sky, no stars or moon out to highlight his appearance. He had come in as silently as a dragon could. It seemed he did arrive at the perfect time, Jon thought, looking up at him again with a smile. He may not be able to connect, but he knew Drogon would listen. “I have something I think you might like to do,” he whispered.

The dragon cocked his great head, as though he were listening.

~/~/~/~/~

“Jon is not going to be happy when he hears all that I have to say,” Arya said, sinking into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the advisor’s desk. Davos did not call himself the Hand of the King, but he sure as seven hells felt like one. He knew Jon preferred to just refer to him as a close friend and advisor. That was what a Hand was supposed to be, he thought, but he also knew Jon was sometimes so damn stubborn he’d never listen to anything a Hand had to say. 

He feared whatever the Lady Arya had overheard from the former masters. He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, staring into the fire. “I wonder just what he might do with them,” he confessed. He knew Arya was as concerned about Jon’s health as he was. He glanced at her. “What is your take on this Daario character?”

She snorted. “He needs a visit from No One.”

It appeared as though it was a reference almost for her, because Davos had no idea to what she referred. He thought the sellsword arrogant when he’d met him. When he had made the comment about the queen being nothing without dragons, he had been stunned that the King hadn’t started beating him to death on the stone floor. There was still time, he sighed. 

Arya was about to say something, but the sound of screams began to drown her words. She glanced at him, terrified, and he rushed to the arches, staring out at the sea, both of them stunned as they stared at the scene stretched before them. 

The ships were on fire, as were the former masters, a few of them trying to run but falling as the dragonfire over took them. “Wildfire,” he wondered out loud, but it wasn’t green. 

“Drogon fire.”

The great black beast that had been gone for some time was swooping down over the sea, screaming and blow fire onto the ships, although the wood was already crumbling into the water. Just kindling to the dragon’s flame. He shook his head, stunned, and the last thing on his mind was where exactly Drogon had come from or why he had returned. 

His first thought was why the masters and just what Jon was thinking. Had he truly gone mad? “He violated guest rites,” he blurted. It was a strange thing to think about. 

“They violated it first, no doubt, plotting the death of the King!” Yes, but they hadn’t told him that bit of news Arya had heard. She pushed at him, turning and running off. “Come on!”

They made their way from the solar and to the winch lift, which would bring them down to the beach faster. He thought it could not go any more slower, when finally it hit the bottom of the cavern. He pushed open the grate and Arya shot out like a dart, racing to the scene first. He hurried after and came to stand beside Jon. He nodded, dazed. “Your Grace.”

“Ser Davos.”

“Care to explain?” They stood before the Second Sons, including Daario, who was glaring at Jon. He had his arakh though, they all had their weapons as they were no longer in the castle. He glanced at the king, whose hand was resting lightly atop Longclaw. Arya was also at the ready, rolling on the balls of her feet, ready for a fight. 

The King shouted for them to hear. “Go back to Meereen,” he ordered. “Tell the former masters there that there will be no slaving in Westeros. No slaving in Essos. Queen Daenerys may no longer be on this world, but the dragons still exist. We will burn you, no matter where you hide.”

“And just who are you to order us?” Daario demanded. 

Jon approached him slowly. This cannot be good, Davos thought warily, darting his gaze from the sellsword to the king. He waited, wondering when the first would draw, but it happened so fast. All he saw was a swift move from the king and Daario was on the sand, screaming as blood spurted from his face. The king fell to his knees and pummeled him, before standing and just when Davos thought he might kick the other man for good measure, he refrained. It seemed Dario may have managed to get a swing in when Davos hadn’t seen, because the King spit out blood and had a cut lip, but he didn’t care. “Don’t you ever disrespect Queen Daenerys again.”

A look at Arya and the young woman made her way to the group, a twisted smile on her lips. Davos did not know what that meant, but he was sure the Second Sons would never step foot on Westerosi land again. He left the other woman to deal with the rest of the Meereen visitors and trudged up with the king. “Care to explain? You burned the masters? That was not very smart and…and what is Drogon doing back?”

“I think he might have followed them from Essos or…” He stopped halfway to the castle and looked out over the dark horizon. Somewhere out there was the main shoreline of Westeros. He took a few deep breaths. “I think…I think he may have been in the North.” Oh son, Davos thought, but said nothing. He watched as the king fiddled with a loop on the sword belt. He glanced at him, a look of confusion and fear and…dare he wonder…hope? “Do you think…um…think…”

“Do I think what, son?” he murmured. The young man moved his hand from the belt to his left side and up to cover his heart. Beneath his fingers and the layers of wool and linen and leather, Davos knew there was a dark curved scar that no doubt wended its way straight to the man’s heart. He closed his eyes briefly. He shook his head. “I don’t know.” It was a possibility of course, but how many Red Women were there with that gift? Magic was dying out. “I don’t know what to think.”

“I…It happened to me…” 

Oh son. It had been over a year…the dragon had returned…of course he wondered. Davos went to stand beside him on the step. “Anything in this world is possible,” he said. He sighed. “If she were alive, she would find you, yes?”

“Maybe she’s waiting for me.” Hope could be such a dangerous thing if not used properly. Davos was about to say something to that sentiment, when the hopeful expression on the king’s young face disappeared, a mask slamming over his features. The eyes went dark and shuttered and his jaw snapped closed. “No,” he whispered. He shook his head. “It can’t be.”

“Why is that?” And the king turned away, walking back up to the castle, and said words that broke Davos’s heart. 

“Because good things do not happen to me. Not twice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Jon prepares to leave for the North for a bit and gives Davos a gift.


	9. doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon departs for the North, but not before conversations with Davos and Arya; at Castle Black, everything comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendrya in this chapter if you squint, so you know, if that's not your jam, then bye/skip.

Drogon departed not long after the Second Sons returned to Meereen. Whatever had brought him to Dragonstone again had sent him away, only this time he was headed north. The frost burn on his neck made Jon wonder, but he tried not to think too hard on it. He knew people thought he was mad for wanting to return north, but it was the safest place he could think for the children. It was as far and remote as he could get from the pressures of being the King he never wanted to be. He had no intention of settling at Winterfell, with Sansa and Bran and the hatred of the Northerners staring at him and his Targaryen children. 

He would go with the people who loved and accepted him, who had loved and accepted her. A storm had rolled in that morning, shifting the winds and the change in air had disturbed the twins’ sleep. Instead of focusing on accounts and raven letters and complaints from the kingdom, he had chosen to stretch before the fire on the pile of furs tugged from his bed, fiddling with carved wooden animals and knights and castles. Daeron was standing on his fat little feet, waving one of the dragons around in the air and screeching. Lyella was seated against a stool, banging two wolf figures together and laughing at the sound. He smiled, picking up one of the horses, pretending to gallop it across the carpet and she squealed, knocking it from his hand. 

“Ai!” she shouted

Daeron, not to be outdone, tossed the dragon onto the fur and squatted carefully, picking up a stag. He made another sound and then dropped it, his attention captured by the flames. He knelt and crawled towards them. Jon watched him carefully. The protective father side in him was warring with the curious dragon, wanting to know. Daeron moved to the flames and after a moment, his tiny hand went to touch the stone beneath one of the braziers. 

He held his breath. Prepared for the scream of an injured baby and the guilt that would follow him for allowing his son to be injured. Except it didn’t happen. Daeron simply giggled and slapped his hands on the hot stone, before turning and reaching towards him, tumbling forward on his still unsteady feet. “The little dragon,” he murmured against his son’s silver hair, smiling. He glanced at his daughter, who no doubt would try, but she stayed away from the fire. 

Lyella had slowly followed after her brother; despite being the bigger twin at birth, she was far more thoughtful, whereas Daeron kind of barreled into things. She walked slowly towards him and he reached to draw her against him, sitting back with the twins in his lap. Daeron yawned and nuzzled into his chest, tiny hand pressed to his sternum. 

Meanwhile, Lyella tucked her head into the crook of his elbow. She was still holding one of the wooden figures, gumming it a bit. After a moment, she peered up, her gray eyes wide. She smiled. Her mother’s smile. “_Ave_,” she whispered. 

It could have just been a sound. They weren’t talking yet. Just babbling. Except he knew it wasn’t. He smiled, leaning to nuzzle at her nose. “Yes,” he whispered, accepting the sloppy kiss she placed on his cheek, her nose wrinkling at the feeling of his beard. He laughed. “I’m _Ave_.” 

It was Dothraki, but it was something. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. She should have been there to see all this. Their first steps. Their first words. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, trying to connect with whatever part of his mind still imagined her around him. _I’m waiting._

He swallowed hard and stretched back onto the furs, closing his eyes and covering Dareon’s back with his hand, while Lyella slept in his arm. He stared at the carved obsidian ceiling, the dragons flickering in the firelight. They looked so real. They may as well have been real. 

Three dragon eggs, two babies, and…and him. That was all he had left. He sighed and closed his eyes, wanting to fall asleep, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. He wondered if she would visit him again. How mad was he that he thought she was real, standing beside him and whispering to him? He had to get out of there. It was getting worse. 

After a long time, he had no idea how long, he untangled himself from the babies, setting them in their cribs and bundling them with their furs, a black one for Daeron and a white one for Lyella, beautiful gifts provided by the Dothraki after their births. He kissed each child, whispered he loved them, and departed, leaving them in the careful care and watch of their guards. 

He wandered the castle, making his way slowly to the library, where he knew Davos would likely be working. He knocked lightly on the door and pushed in, finding the former smuggler seated at the great obsidian desk, very carefully copying words onto a parchment. “Your Grace,” Davos said, coming to stand. 

When he went to the free folk he would not have to worry about people standing and bowing and kneeling when he entered a room. He was looking forward to it. He waved him to sit down and went to sit in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, tapping his fingers on the armrest. “How are you?” he asked.

Davos squinted, cocking his head. “I should ask you that question Your Grace, it is my job to worry about your health. Not you of mine.”

He chuckled. “My health?” He propped his head on his hand. He smiled briefly. “You know that when a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin…”

“And see which side it lands, I have heard the saying.” Davos wrinkled his nose. “Not much for sayings where I’m from. You put your entire life in those things and you are doing nothing but bringing yourself worry.” He pointed his quill towards him, bushy brows lifting. “Now you are not mad. I know what they say and I do not care. You are a man who lost more than you ever thought you could, more than anyone ever thought possible, and you’re still here. You’re a father, a king…you are not mad.”

Well that was reassuring, he thought with a brief smile. He shook his head slightly. “I worry sometimes. When the need to…kill…comes up.”

“Like with the masters?” At his nod, Davos mimicked the move in sympathetic understanding. He sighed and set he quill down, leaning back in his chair. “You are not a killer. You are a protector. You make bad people go away.” 

That was what Tyrion had said about Dany. _She gets rid of monsters._ Jon closed his eyes briefly. “I’m tired, Davos. I’m tired of people coming here and trying to spit on her memory and…and I want to leave.”

“You have done well as king.”

“All I have done is fight,” he continued. It was his entire life. “Since I left Witnerfell…Davos I was barely eight and ten years.” Gods he was not that old now. It felt like he’d lived a hundred years. He chuckled. “I died. I have done nothing but fight and hurt and…and I died. I came back and wanted to put that behind me, but I kept fighting and…and I can’t do it any longer. My children are growing. They need air and land and people…I can be king somewhere else.”

Davos wrinkled his nose. “And that’s the north? Where they shamed your queen and would likely do the same to you? Hard sons of bitches up there, Your Grace.”

“I know, but I’m not going to Winterfell. I’m going to the Free Folk.” 

“You have three dragon eggs, Your Grace.”

The warmth would be necessary for them, he knew. He nodded. All he could think of was the dream. The lovely warmth on his skin and the sunlight. Things were different. Changing now that the Night King was gone. He couldn’t explain it. He lifted his dark eyes up to Davos. “I have dreams, you know. I see her.” It was the first time he’d really admitted it out loud. To himself or to someone else. If Davos did not think he was mad before, he certainly would after.

The older man got up from the desk and walked around to sit in the chair beside him, so they were on rather equal footing. He leaned back. Nodded. “I know.”

“You know?”

“I hear you. You talk to nothing.”

Sometimes Arya gave him strange looks now and then. He couldn’t get out of those dreams he had. The ones where she was with him. They were so real. He had to go see if it was true. He laughed, tired, slightly manic. It wasn’t real and the smile didn’t meet his eyes. He sighed, dropping his hand to his knee. “Gods Davos…I feel like I’m losing a part of myself the longer I stay away.” He just needed to go and…and maybe he would sleep there. Be able to stop thinking of her. “I won’t be gone too long…just…enough to feel better.” He sighed. “Until I can figure out the alternative. I am the king right?”

He laughed, a bark. He glanced at Davos, who shook his head, chuckling. “I have never met another man who wants to be king less than you.”

“I’m trying to do my duty.” That was all he ever wanted to do. He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping and drowning in fatigue he would never be able to get rid of. He closed his eyes, whispering. “I fell I love with her…I bent the knee because I saw who she was and no one else did. The Northerners refused her and they refused me. One of them. If I hadn’t done that…” If he had stayed King in the North. If he had just kept to his war and not dragged her into it…

The ‘what if’ would kill him, Davos told him that already. “Don’t start playing that game, Your Grace. You will go madder than you already think you are.”

“Dragonstone is the only home my children know, but it isn’t my home.” It had its moments. He enjoyed the corridors. The views of the sea. The hot springs that managed to unwind his muscles and simultaneously bring him back to thoughts of her. “It is no place for a direwolf and I need Ghost. My children need him too.” Sometimes he dreamed of his wolf. Could see through his eyes as he had done many times before, since he’d found the little runt beside his much stronger brothers and sisters. “It’s her home too. I see her everywhere.” It was killing him. “I need to feel the wind and the snow, for a moment. I’ll stop at Winterfell, secure the castle there, meet with the Northern lords again…and then I will head north. With the Free Folk.”

“The Free Folk did accept her,” Davos agrees. They were good people. They were better Northerners than the ones he’d grown up around. He wanted his children to experience the joy the free folk felt, without a ruler or rules. Just be free. “The cold with the children though…”

“It won’t be for long.” He could hear her. See her. “She tells me to go north. I have those dreams where you can’t drag me free. I just need to see.” To make sure they weren’t real. To confirm if he was in fact as mad as his grandfather or if he was just sad. Just a sad shell of a man who wanted to be a good king and a good father, but he was missing a piece of himself. He had for over a year and it was not getting any better. “I need to see,” he repeated, more for himself than Davos. 

It was insane. It was an insane idea. The king was going to leave his capital, take two toddlers away from their home, on a long journey at sea and on land, to the place where their blood might call them Starks but the locals certainly would not call them that. To where their mother was ostracized and hated, because she shared blood with a mad king and happened to not look like them. Jon knew they saw him like that too. As much as he was Ned’s son, he was at the end of the day to them, the blood of the Mad King, who had burned Rickard and Brandon Stark alive. No amount of truth would tell them Rhaegar hadn’t stolen Lyanna away and raped her. 

It was all rather detestable and yet here he was about to embark on it. He pushed his thumbs up to his brows, mumbling. “You think me mad.”

“Jon Snow I have never thought you mad.” That was something. Davos tapped his gloved hand on the armrest of the chair. His voice dropped. “Do you believe she will be there, son?”

_Son._ He pushed off his knees and went to stand at one of the thin windows that faced to the mainland. He crossed his arms over his chest and pressed his head to the cold stone. “There’s magic in the North,” he murmured. It might have been why Drogon had headed there for some reason. “And I just…I don’t know. I need to see. Maester Aemon left writings and books and…maybe I can understand.”

“Understand what?”

“What I am. What my children are.” The dragon eggs. He didn’t know anything beyond what was at his fingertips and he needed to figure it out. The libraries at Castle Black, if they still had anything left after the battles, might be a place to start. Aemon had been at the Wall for decades. There had to be something there for him. He’d written to Sam at the Citadel to see what he could find, but his former Night’s Watch brother and best friend had not provided anything useful. Sam was still angry with him for sending him back to the Citadel to continue his Maester training. 

The decisions he made were never the popular ones, he’d discovered. Davos said that meant they were probably the right ones. “The visitors of Meereen were just the first,” Davos said. Jon didn’t need the reminder.

“Aye. The more people visit, the more danger they are in.” The ideality of the capitol being located at Dragonstone meant he could control the people, the weapons, and the timing of when he wanted visitors. To a point. It was also an island, at the end of the day, and quite a large one that had a rather unprotected and unpopulated side, where anyone could sneak ashore. The children would need interaction with others their age. They needed to explore and learn and being locked away in a castle was not for them. _A dragon is not a slave._

Davos nodded again. He got up from the chair and went to stand beside him. “I understand your decision, doesn’t mean I have to like it very much. The free folk will be good for you, after this time.” It was unsaid that maybe he could move on. Get out of the depression he’d been living in since Dany died in his arms and he’d taken on the role as heir apparent to the Iron Throne. “And I know you do not want to speak of such matters, but…who will be regnant in your departure?”

“The council,” he said, glancing at Davos. It had been a work in progress. The idea being there’d be a representative from each of the kingdoms, sitting together and coming to an agreement…downright unheard of for Westeros. It was weak for now, but he hoped to expand it beyond the lords paramount to something more…representative of the people. He sighed. “I’m hoping one day we can have some sort of…smallfolk council as well. Hear their voices.”

“That sounds like ad ream, Your Grace.”

“Maybe itw ill come true one day.”

Davos chuckled. “I have no doubt with your mind on it, it will.” He frowned briefly. “And Winterfell? We still have not been clear with the Northern Lords on their true place in the kingdoms.”

“Aegon took Seven Kingdoms. I gave Dorne their independence and the Iron Islands are now a kingdom unto themselves, no longer members of the West.” So it was still sitting at Six. He swished his lips around for a moment and blew out his cheeks, feeling a headache forming at the base of his skull. He pressed hit fingers underneath the ridge of bone above his neck, closing his eyes. “The North is free in name only and they know it. If that’s all they fucking want they can have it, so long as I don’t have to deal with their constant complaining.”

“So you’re King of the Five Kingdoms and King in the North?”

“Well sort of. Arya will rule the North in my stead.” The Wardeness of the North. He felt a perverse glee at the anger it no doubt raged in Sansa that her little sister was the one who was in charge. If Sansa truly cared about her people, her castle, and the North, she would do her duty and not complain of titles. Someone had to do their duty, while he stepped aside from his for the first time in his life.

He turned away from the window and thought of something. Began to laugh. Davos eyed him, surprised. “Your Grace?”

“Oh gods.” He laughed again, his hsoulders shaking. He scrubbed his face; he needed sleep. He glanced at his friend, still smiling, as much as he could. “I just thought of something. My father came south and returned north with a babe. I came south and am doing the same.” He quirked another grin. “History just repeats itself, does it not?”

“Aye, that it does.”

It was important that he do this right, he thought, sobering up. He drew himself up a bit, tried to at least pretend to be kingly. He reached into his coat, removing a small box. He held it in his hands for a moment and took a deep breath, stepping towards Davos again. “I wanted to give you something before I depart.” He handed it to the older man, who took it silently, curiosity creeping over his weathered face. He cleared his throat. “It’s not much…for all you’ve done but…I wanted you to…to have it.”

Davos flicked the lid off the box and reached in, removing the iron wax stamp secured to a wooden handle. He turned it over and studied the opposite image on the iron. A ship with an onion on its sail. He glanced up. “My sigil…after Stannis knighted me.”

“I am taking the liberty as king to elevate your status.” He flashed a quick smile at Davos’s wide eyes. “I believe it is within my duties and if it not, well…I’ll make it so.” He was the fucking king after all. He smiled again. It felt good, doing this. Made him feel like he was actually doing something that mattered. “You did not have to stay at the Wall with me but you did. You had the Red Woman bring me back. I’m not…not good with words, but…I…I thank you Ser Davos.” He paused. “Lord Seaworth.”

It almost knocked Davos down, so he leaned back against the desk, still holding the seal. His eyes widened further. “Lord? But…Your Grace…”

“Dragonstone will need a castellan. The island will need someone to oversea the protection of its borders from smugglers and thieves. At the end of the day this castle is the capitol and someone needs to make sure it doesn’t fall into ruin,” he said. He pushed his finger into Davos’s chest. “And I name you. Bring your wife and your children and grandchildren. Sail, fish…live in peace.” He paused. It was all anyone wanted. He smiled briefly again. “That’s an order. From the King.”

Nothing else had to be said. Thank gods Lord Davos was as less with words as him. So he merely stood and bowed his head, taking the offered hand in a shake, before jerking him in for a massive bear hug. Jon closed his eyes against emotion, smiling into the other man’s shoulder and accepted the silent thanks. He broke away, stepping backwards. “If you’re ever up north, come find us.” 

He chuckled. “I will do that, Your Grace.”

With another smile, this one actually meeting his eyes, one of the first in over a year, Jon turned and left the library, taking the shortest route he could through the halls he’d become an expert in navigating, so he could return as fast as possible to his children, to spend every waking moment with them before they set sail.

~/~/~/~/~

“Come in.”

A glance over his shoulder confirmed the entrant to the cabin was Arya; he had no doubt, most of the crew stayed as far from his cabins as possible. He nodded briefly at her and returned to his task, which consisted of pinching Lyella’s toes, each one in turn, and laughing with her when she giggled, trying to knock his hand away only to squeal when he tried to turn attention to her brother, who only wanted to pull on his father’s hair. 

He sat up on the bed, taking Lyella with him. “You seem better,” he acknowledged. The first few days at sea had sent her mostly to the side of the ship, sick and turning gray on occasion. He leaned against the bulkhead, Lyella standing on his thighs so she could smack his face with her hands and play with his hair, nose, lips, ears, and anything she could grab. Daeron decided Auntie Arya was a fun toy and tried to grab for Needle, attached at her hip. 

“Ah, ah,” she warned, dodging out his way. “That is not a toy.” She sat at a small table, pouring herself a drink. She sighed and took a sip, made a face. “I will be so happy to finish with this sweet Southern wine.” She glanced at him and frowned. “I’ve been thinking about…my new role.”

It was something he knew she didn’t want and he was sorry for it, but they both knew that Sansa could not be trusted if given a hint of power. He nodded. “I know you’re upset…”

“It’s not that.” She sighed. Looked into her wine. Lifted her gaze and muttered. “Gendry Baratheon proposed to me.”

Lyella shrieked when he pulled her hand away from where she was poking at his eyes, glaring over at his sister. Not much shocked him these days, but that certainly had him wondering. He was fighting against Lyella, who was now angry and trying to bite him and poke his eyes out at the same time, while he gaped at his sister, who merely smiled around her goblet and took another sip before making a face. Good, I hope it burns your throat, he thought, unable to speak. He was not sure if he had anything to say about it. How did this make him feel? He really did not know. 

Arya and…and…GEndry? Did Arya even…his cheeks turned pinked. “You…and…and Gendry?” he stammered. 

“Oh look I made Jon Snow speechless.” She smirked. “On purpose.”

It was not that he was speechless…he was just…he was speechless, yes. He wanted to say something but had no idea what he was supposed to say. He just snapped his jaw shut. Lyella growled and yanked his face back to hers, trying to bite his nose. He pushed her hands away again, turning her around so her back was to his chest, fiddling with her toes, which captured her attention. “I just…I did not realize…” He wrinkled his nose. “You and…and boys? You…”

“I am a woman, you know.”

“You are not!” You are Arya! My little sister! He flushed again at her arched eyebrow. He swallowed hard. “You know what I mean. I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“Jon I’m well aware that you have had sexual intercourse.” She pointed to the twins. “You have proof.”

He stood and began to hum, blocking out the thoughts of his little sister and Gendry Baratheon and the concept of _sexual intercourse._ He was going to kill him. The Stormlands would have to find another Lord Paramount. He bounced Lyella against him, his daughter cooing and yanking her feet up to practically shove into his mouth. He had no idea if she even had bones anymore, the way his daughter scrambled around and over things that were her way. He figeted with Lyella, glaring over at Arya, who was sipping her wine and waiting for a response, oddly calm. “I don’t know how I feel about this,” he finally said.

“Well that’s good because I don’t need your permission for anything.”

“I’m a king.”

“Not in this matter you’re not.” 

He sat down in the chair across from her, scowling. “Did he force you?” he demanded. He’d kill him anyway.

She did not bother to look at him, just poured herself some more wine. “I’m going to pretend you did not say that. Murdering a king will end with me dead and I don’t fancy dying just yet.”

Yes that was a stupid thing for him to say. He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, you are and…adult. As much as I still think you’re my little sister.” He smiled briefly. “With your braids and dirty skirts. Shooting arrows when you should have been learning to embroider dresses.”

They shared another soft smile. She reached her hand over to squeeze his, her voice quiet. “Gendry and I went through a lot. He thought me a boy for a logn time, on the way to the Wall. I never told you…how I got out of King’s Landing.” She paused. He didn’t want to hear it if it would cause her pain, so he squeezed her hand tight. She sensed the feeling and nodded to herself. “One of the Night’s Watch’s wandering crows was gathering recruits from the Black Cells. I think Father knew about Gendry. Got him out of there to protect him. I was there in the crowds and the crow…Yoren his name was, he kept me from seeing…_it._” 

His eyes fluttered shut. Instead of her seeing it, Sansa had seen it happen. It had been just the beginning of the tearing apart the Lannisters had done to her. The destruction of the snobby but ultimately sweet sister he’d known from his childhood. Into the bitter, angry woman she’d become. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry Arya…”

“No, I want you to know. Yoren cut my hair, dressed me as a boy. I went by the name ‘Arry.’” She chuckled. “Eventually it came out that I was not a boy and I was Arya Stark. Gendry was shocked of course.” She frowned. “He was my friend. That entire way up through to Harranhal and the Brotherhood and everything, he was my friend. I did not think I’d ever see him again with the Red Woman took him away. She wanted his blood. King’s blood.” 

Yes, Melisandre had been rather obsessed with that. He brushed his lips over the top of Lyella’s dark head, lolling against his shoulder as she dozed, exhausted from trying to attack him. He glanced at his sister again. “So when did he propose?”

“After your...” She paused. She looked at her hands. “After the queen legitimized him. We had won the battle and…and well…before it started I just…” She turned pink and averted her gaze. He waited a moment and then it hit him. He stuttered and grabbed a goblet of wine to simply keep him from saying something stupid and give him something to do. She continued. “Gendry is the best lord you’ve got right now so don’t go taking it out on him though, I know you.”

Take it out on him? “I wouldn’t…” Well not now, he supposed. He set his jaw again. “Fine.”

“I jumped him, I’ll have you know.”

He began to hum loudly, drowning away the thoughts, which only served to make her laugh. He growled. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh come on Jon. I heard you and the queen the first couple of nights. You thought you were being so sneaky.” It started teasing, but the light in her eyes faded as her smile dropped. He wasn’t sure what expression was on his face, but he felt an ache in his gut. He unconsciously clutched Lyella tighter. She looked away, whispering. “I’m sorry…I thought we were…I’m sorry.”

They were. They were teasing each other like brothers and sisters did. It just was that any mention of his dead…whatever Dany ended up being to him…he closed his eyes tight. Part of this journey was to move beyond. He would never love again. He didn’t care if it was political to make marriages and matches, he would never take a wife. Never father another child. He had his children with Dany and he had had her, for a short of time as he did, and that was all he would endure for the rest of his life. 

He turned the goblet around a few times, lifting his gaze to hers, whispering. “So you said no to Lord Baratheon’s proposal?”

“Obviously.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m not a lady. I told him so…he wanted me to be Lady of Storm’s End. That’s not me.” 

“You’re Wardeness of the North now.”

“I know…I…it’s my duty I know. I can still be Arry…Arya…” Her voice faded. “No One.”

It was not mutually exclusive; he hoped she would realize that. This was a new world they were building. One where she could be Wardeness of the North and still be married to the Lord of Storm’s End. It was something she would have to realize on her own, so he kept his mouth closed. He hoisted Lyella up a little farther on his chest, turning her carefully so he could cuddle her close, her soft breath puffing on his neck. 

“How did you get Sansa to stop…whatever it was she was doing there on Dragonstone?” It was a curious question, asked not just to change the subject from her love life, but probably to satisfy knowing that their sister had stopped her scheming, before she took over as the Wardeness. 

He smiled briefly. “Fear.”

“Fear?” 

“It is a powerful motivator.” It was what Dany thought she had. The only thing left in her arsenal. Her dragons could instill fear in anyone. The Dothraki and the Unsullied…they instilled fear in the Northerners the moment they arrived. Except they weren’t to be feared. They were to be respected. That was all she wanted, he thought with a sad sigh. “Sometimes love…sometimes fear…” He closed his eyes again. Gods, he was so tired. “I am so tired of killing…I don’t want to be a kinslayer. I did what she…she understood.” 

Arya leaned forward over the table, crossing her arms in front of her. “You always were the most like Father.” Ironic, considering he was not even Ned Stark’s real son. She propped her head on her hand, whispering and gazing over at him wistfully. “He was always so honorable and noble…you were like that too. You are still.”

He shook his head. “No…no I’m not. I can’t be anymore. He protected me. He took on a shame he had no business having, he endured problems with your mother because of it…he did it all to protect me. He protected the family.” That was what he would do. 

“Protect the family.” Arya sat straighter and ultimately leaned back, crossing her arms and legs, protecting herself. He frowned briefly at the moment. She fiddled with the edge of her gambeson and ultimately said what was on her mind. “I hear you sometimes.” Her gray eyes met his. They really were very much alike. He was reminded briefly of when she was small, wondering if she was also a bastard because she was so unlike the rest of the Starks.

He played dumb, but he couldn’t. Not with Arya. “Yeah? Well…I talk in my sleep sometimes. So?”

“It isn’t in your sleep, Jon.” She cocked her head, forehead wrinkling and her eyes narrowing. “Jon you seem to be having conversations with someone who isn’t there. I hear you. You’re talking to her.” She licked her lips, hesitating. Just ask it, he silently demanded, not breaking his gaze from hers. “Do you see her too?”

He pressed his cheek to Lyella’s, closing his eyes and feeling the breeze of the North over his face, feel her standing behind him and the light weight of her hands on his chest as she lowered her lips to his ears. Silver-gold hair blinded him and he closed his eyes, willing her to leave for now. As she always did, she ignored him, and remained behind him, listening. He felt his heart begin to thud hard against his scarred chest. Her hand covered the crescent one on his sternum. “Does that bother you?” he whispered. His eyes opened and he rolled them up, looking behind him briefly. 

His little sister, to her credit, did not seem scared. If anything, she just looked sad. I don’t need your pity, he thought. She shook her head. “You and I always loved the Targaryens, Jon. We loved hearing stories about them from Maester Luwin and Old Nan. We know what they have.”

“Madness and greatness.” He lifted his gaze to land on hers again. The breeze seemed to wash over him once more and he felt her hand in his, squeezing as she came around to stand beside him, looking down, reassuring. He squeezed her hand back. “Would it bother you if I were truly mad, Arya?”

His sister smiled. “No Jon. It would not bother me, just don’t kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“And you do the same.” At that, she smiled once again. 

_She’s come around from how she was before…I wish I could have met this version of your little sister and not the monster that greeted me._ She slunk around him, creeping by and going to stand behind his sister, her face sad and violet eyes darkened to indigo. He traveled his gaze across the room to where she was standing and took in her beautiful, glowing form. It was so real. So much more than it ever had been before. 

“You’re seeing her, aren’t you?”

He barely registered Arya, but dropped his chin in a slight nod, his eyes still on the other woman’s, still drowning in their depths. It was so real. Each visit was more and more vivid. She knew things she shouldn’t and he knew things she hadn’t told him when she was alive. Arya stood and pushed her chair back to the table, her voice a soft whisper. “I’ll leave you be Jon.”

The door shut after her and he stood, going to the fire and sitting before it, holding his daughter and collecting his son, feeling them sleep against him. She came to sit beside him, drawing herself into his lap with her arms around his neck and her lips brushing across his face until she captured his with them. A soft moan escaped her as he tugged her closer and she tilted her head back to allow him access to her neck, his mouth securing over the pulse point. The steady thrum against his lips terrified him. It was so real. How could he be imaging this? “Where are you?” he almost sobbed. “I can’t keep doing this. Either kill me and have me be with you or…or come back to me.”

Her hand pressed to his heart, scalding him. _You know where to find me. _

“Where?” he begged. 

She smiled, long and slow and stroked her fingers through his hair, skimming them over his jaw and her thumb brushed against his lower lip. She kissed him again and breathed, disappearing as she said it. _Where it all began for you._

~/~/~/~/~

Here we are.

It was just as dark and depressing as it had been when he’d first arrived. Perhaps a little newer, with freshly painted black walls and new gray roofing. The gate that drew in rattled, not as loud as before, perhaps they oiled the hinge after all this time. He stared into the yard, where he’d spent countless hours. Where he’d died. Where he’d killed brothers. 

He felt the fussing of the twins, who were strapped in front of him in a sort of contraption one of the free folk women who had stayed at Winterfell to serve as a cook had gifted him. Said it would be useful until they could learn to ride a horse on their own. Should be soon, she reminded him, expressing her disappointment that the twins were not already sitting upright on ponies. The sling thing allowed them the ability to see out, waving their hands and feet and try to grab the reigns from him, one on his front and one on his back. 

He felt like a packhorse, but he would not trust his children with anyone on the journey from Winterfell to Castle Black. He would meet with Tormund here, he’d told the free folk riders who had headed up to bring the message a few days before. They would pass through the Wall after a couple of days at Castle Black, so he could discuss the matters of the Watch with the brothers still remaining. It was to become something of a border guard, he’d decided. They would keep the gap in the Wall open. The Free Folk could come and go and perhaps even the people in the North who wanted to live without a Targaryen king could go above the Wall, no one was stopping them.

The black destrier he rode trudged ahead, hooves clomping in the hardened dirt. The snow had largely melted and it was not as cold as he remembered. He looked around the breezeways, balconies, and platforms, at the Night’s Watch brothers, some remaining from his time there, who bowed upon his entry. He looked down at Daeron, who was at his front, who had quieted as they entered. Lyella had also gone silent, but he felt her drool on his neck and knew she had fallen asleep. Daeron seemed to vibrate, his eyes wide as he looked around, taking in his new surroundings. He whined and began to struggle. “It’s alright, it’s already,” he soothed, climbing carefully off the destrier. He lifted Daeron out, handing him to one of the free folk women who had traveled north with them to serve as their nurse and he helped another with Lyella, who had awakened and was also vibrating with a sort of tension he had never seen before.

He looked around, the low hum of activity as the small band of Free Folk from Winterfell, who had come north to serve as his personal guards, began to tend to the horses, unpack provisions, and greet their fellow community members. Arya had joined them, the Wardeness of the North coming to treat with subjects of her province. She climbed off her chestnut mare, handing the reigns to one of the black brothers, who bowed his head to her. She waved him off, not liking the pomp and circumstance. “This place is as horrible as I imagined,” she murmured. 

“If you can believe it, it’s better than when I left,” he chuckled. He gazed to the corner of the yard, where he had fallen into the snow, feeling his blood leave him and his heart stop. He swallowed hard. They would not be here long. He looked up at the Lord Commander’s tower, not surprised to see Tormund standing there, a smile on his broad, red-bearded face. He lifted his hand in silent greeting.

Tormund, not one for silence, all but leaped from the railing. “Crow! King Crow!” He hurried down the stairs and laughed, rushing to greet him with a hug that lifted him from his feet. “You made it!” There was something holding back though, Jon could feel it almost immediately. 

He felt his feet land on the ground again. “It is good to see you,” he said. He looked around at everyone. A hush had fallen on them. Even Arya seemed unnerved. The only sound came from the twins, who were beginning to whine loud, fretting. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand. Was this place not as safe as he had imagined it to be? Did he make a terrible mistake bringing his children here? 

He glanced at Tormund. “How are things?” he murmured. He turned his head a few times, looking for Ghost. He expected the direwolf to be waiting for him. He was nowhere to be found in the yard. No matter, he would likely emerge at some point. 

Tormund cocked his head, nodding slowly and smiling. “They’re good, King Crow. I hope you know I still ain’t kneeling to you.”

“Never expected you would.”

“You done killing people?”

“For now.” 

“The snows are melting beyond the Wall. Hardhome is being rebuilt. More settlements forming as spring comes. Some of the children have never seen it before.” Tormund chuckled. “I have not seen it before.”

There was still tension in his friend’s voice. He looked around again and saw a group of Free Folk walking towards him. He clapped Tormund on the shoulder, assuming he would have to greet them. There was one in furs, with a hood up over her head. He assumed it was a woman. Tormund glanced over his shoulder and smiled, knowing something but not telling. He was starting to grow nervous. “Tormund,” he murmured. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, King Crow.” He gave him another hug, his voice soft as he whispered into his ear. “Got a visitor at the Wall a bit ago. Eager to see ya’.”

He looked around Tormund’s shoulder, letting go of his friend’s embrace, unsure what to expect, peering around some of the free folk who broke away from the hooded figure. As if on cue, he lifted is head up to the sky, hearing a screech. He smiled, shielding his vision and watching as Drogon wheeled overhead, great leathery wings beating at the cool air, sending a gust over them. I suppose he wants to see the twins, he thought, glad that Drogon had decided to journey to a land where he had lost so much. 

As his gaze fell down, he stared at the Free Folk woman who had dropped her hood. 

It wasn’t a Free Folk woman.

He took one step forwards towards her. Stopped. Unmoving. Unblinking. Not breathing. His heart went to his throat. It could not be. It was not real. It was the madness, the madness had come to take him finally. 

She stood before him, silver-gold hair slung over her shoulder in a loose braid. Violet eyes wide and shimmering with tears. Skin pale but her cheeks held a rosy tinge. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. Alive. She was alive. 

She was here.

Everyone around them stared; no one spoke, no one made a sound. 

He took another step towards her. 

She stepped to him.

They were so close he could see the individual lashes that dusted her cheek and hear her bare intakes of breath. He could count the rings of violet around her pupil and watch them contract and dilate with anticipation. He did not dare make a move, fearful it would go away. The dreams, the visions, the constant visits, they were not like this. They were not this real. He felt her in front of him, quivering and he started to see her blur. Was she going away from him now? 

No, no it was tears. He had tears in his eyes and she was going blurry because he was about to break down and start sobbing, holding her and never letting go. He felt his hand reach up, moving to touch at her face and she let out a gasping sob, her lips pulling up into an amazed smile as she touched her fingertips to his cheek. Her breath hitched in her throat. “Hello Jon,” she breathed, her breath warm on his skin. 

_Hello Jon._

He continued to stare. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. He pushed her furs aside and his hand rested atop her chest. He heard her soft gasp at the coolness of his hand and beneath his palm, her skin pebbled. All he focused on was the beating heart. Her hand came up and covered his, squeezing. 

Somewhere, he heard Tormund yelling, finally breaking the anticipative silence. _Kiss her Crow!_

It did something. Lit a fire beneath him and with a strangled sound, resembling the snarl of a wolf or the snap of a dragon, he grabbed her face with his hands roughly, dragging her against him and crushing his mouth to hers. She moaned, equally needy, and her fingers dove into his hair, yanking at the curls, fisting and pulling to lift herself up into his arms. His grip almost snapped her in half, clutching her so tight against him, their hearts slamming together in unison, both of them alive and real and-- _gods_\-- he had to have her, he had to let her know he could never live without her, that this last year and few months had been the worst of his _fucking_ life and he had so many questions like where was she and how was she here and did she know all that had happened.

There would be time for that at some point, the stupid part of his brain that insisted on _thinking_ told him. The other part, the part keen on never letting her go, fought to drink from her, take every piece of her for himself and at the same time give every piece of himself to her. This was not like any kiss they had ever shared before, none of the questioning, tentative kisses in the stateroom that had turned to passionate, exploring ones. None of the sweetness from their first dragon ride, as they felt they already knew enough about the other. None of the longing and the tension from after the battle, before he broke away and felt ashamed.

This was just everything he had to tell her. All the apologies and the shame and the fear he’d felt. The love and desire and sheer overwhelming need for her. He sobbed against her mouth, smiling as they broke to breathe and she laughed, her fingertips shaking and brushing a stray curl from his eyes. She closed her eyes and a gleeful sound he had never heard from her escaped her lips as he embraced her again, lifting her off her feet and her ankles kicking up as he spun her in circles, never wanting to let her touch the ground.

Oh gods, he thought, wanting nothing more than to kiss her again. To sweep her off her feet once more and take her to somewhere private where he could worship her like she was supposed to be worshipped and plead his apologies and tell her he would never let her go again, she was his Dany and he was her Jon, and he was a stupid fucking cunt for ever pushing her away in the first place and he burned and destroyed everyone who dared to hurt her or her memory and would continue to do so as long as he lived. 

She seemed to be of the same mind, answering one of the silent questions he had, as she pushed around him and almost fell to her knees if he hadn’t been there to hold her up with an arm around the waist, the Free Folk women bringing her children to her for the first time. She sobbed and held Daeron,t he little boy babbling and muttering _MaiMaiMaiMaiMai_ for he already knew who she was. Lyella was ripping at her hair and repeating _MaMaMaMaMa_. She did not care, nor should she, what anyone thought of her gasping breaths and the strange tongues that came out of her mouth as she spoke to the children she’d birthed but hadn’t known. 

They somehow made their way into the Lord Commander’s tower, where once upon a time ago he used to sit and wonder what had happened to his life and why it had happened to him and would he ever really be warm again? He fell onto the bed with her, shedding capes and furs and clutching at her, never wanting her to let go, as their children scrambled over her and she spoke to them in Valyrian, no doubt telling them everything she had wanted to for as long as she had been thinking it. 

Jon had no idea how long it would be before he could get answers to some of the questions in his mind, but he did not care. For some reason all the pain and the darkness and the evil that had happened since she’d died in his arms faded to a numb ache, a fire spreading through to cleanse it all away from his mind. A dragon, he thought, burying his face into her hair and inhaling her familiar scent. He kissed her neck and nuzzled, turning his face to see his children smiling and laughing at their mother, who was smiling and laughing with them. She knew their names, of course she did. 

He kept his arms around her for how long he did not know; eventually a door opened and Ghost padded in silently, hopping onto the bottom of the bed and settling down. Of course he knew she was there. Of course, he thought with a laugh, still clutching her. “I love you,” he whispered into her skin. He vowed then and there he would go no more than a minute before he told her or showed her how much. 

Her soft hand went to his face, stroking lightly as she leaned in. “I know you do. I love you too.”

“Dany I’m so sorry.” He opened his mouth to start the apologies. To start explaining to her how ashamed he was and how he wanted nothing more than to love her for the rest of their lives, but she stilled him, fingers covering his lips. 

She shook her head, tears trickling down her face, sticky rivers that Daeron and Lyella both began to try to brush away with their fat little hands. “No Jon,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Do not look back. You’ll be lost forever if you do.” 

He nodded. Nodded and gripped her tighter, closing his eyes. No more looking back, only forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew-- that was a long one, but I wanted to get the reunion in before the Epilogue. Didn't want that to BE the reunion. In any case, I know this will not satisfy everyone. I never pretended this fic to be anything other than what it was-- an angsty tale of love, despair, dark!Jon, and the extent one goes for that. 
> 
> Thanks and epilogue should be up in a few days.


	10. never doubt my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany thinks about what she's endured to get where she is (takes place immediately after last chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't decide the timing of the epilogue, so I figured I'd just go straight after the last chapter. Apologies if this makes no sense, wrote it after like three hours of sleep, an entire day of class/training, and after sitting in traffic for two hours. I may go back and change it, I haven't decided.

It could not be real.

That was all she had been thinking this entire time. The time she lay in the black waste of death. The time she lay on the granite slab, unable to move and trapped inside of her mind. The time she screamed for days on end as the red priests and priestesses tried to heal her, the poison somehow coming with her even in rebirth. The broken mind she contended with for months, seeing things that were not there, fearful and terrorized by images of men with knives and poisons and the empty ache in her womb where her children should have been and in her arms where they should have rested.

She wanted to die so many times. For months as she tried to heal and had another setback, over and over again. The red priestess Kinvara and the red priest Benarro, the head of all the followers of Rh’llor. They did everything they could, they fed her pastes and wrapped her in salves and poured horrid acid-like drink into her throat. They put her into deep sleeps for weeks on end and brought her out to see how she had healed. She went through periods of silence. She did not want to hear anything about what had happened to the people who did this to her.

All that seeped inside of her was the need to see _him._ So she demanded they show her. In all the times she lay there in repose, she could see him. She could talk to him. She would kiss him and speak with him and run her fingers through his hair like she was really there. This was the man she had hoped he would become when she’d processed the news of his parentage. The one he had been afraid to become and the one he did not want her to see. 

She’d asked Kinvara if she could keep visiting him. If it was just in her mind. Her twisted mind. Kinvara had her walk through fire. She would stay in the fire for hours, speaking with him. Somehow they used their magic and they used her magic, deep in her blood, the blood of Valyria they praised, and she could be there with him. She could be there with him as he held their children and smiled with them and she could see them but not touch them. It was its own sort of torture. 

It was all a dream. 

Sometimes she kept expecting to wake and find that she was still sitting in that cold room in Dragonstone, alone and pregnant and scared and relying on the only thing in her arsenal that she had left—fear, hatred, and anger. She lashed out at him when she could, refused to see him or anyone else, and in a moment of weakness and sadness she’d forgotten, she’d forgotten and she’d drank a glass of wine, and then not long after she began to bleed and she was dying.

_I love you, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, I’m so sorry Dany, marry me Dany…_

It was all she heard, it was the last thing she heard, but she saw something else. She felt his hands in hers, trembling and slipping with her blood, but she could see the beautiful waterfall where he shared a piece of his childhood. The only thing in the North she had actually enjoyed. She wanted to go back there. They never should have left, they should have stayed and lived a thousand years and died there, old and gray and royals in blood only. 

Her children were her only things, the only thing she had left in the entire world, she would wait for them to be born and then she would take what was hers. She would have sent Drogon in and burned every single person in King’s Landing to the ground for her children. She knew it was twins, she could feel them, but she kept quiet, not even to the Dothraki midwives who tended to her. Not to Grey Worm or to Raqho. This was her secret. She did not know what to name them. 

_Daeron._

_Lyella._

They were perfect names. Lyella for her grandmothers, who died birthing their children. Daeron for the brave, strong, and smart dragon. He confessed to her that Daeron had always been his favorite, but he liked Aemon the Dragonknight too. Aemon the Maester as well, but Daeron was who he wanted to be more than anyone. It was perfect.

Her children lay between them, sleeping soundly and peacefully, as they should always sleep. Daeron looked so much like him, even with the silver hair and violet eyes. Lyella was the spitting image of him as well; she didn’t care what he said. They were beautiful and she would love them forever and never let go. She looked over at him, the one who had brought her here, somehow. 

All the talk of the North and the dreams she’d had of the waterfall. It was a place where she went in her mind when the pain grew to be too much. She wanted to go there and then he started talking about it, about going North, so she began to talk to him about it, began to hint to him about it. Go north, I’ll be there. She’d sent Drogon ahead. He got a bit of frostbite, but beyond that, he was okay.

She’d led him to the eggs, she knew there were eggs at Dragonstone, just like she knew there were eggs at Winterfell and eggs at Queenscrown. Queen Alysanne’s Silverwing had been busy on their journey to the North, hundreds of years ago. They would find them all in time. They would have their dragons and they would make their piece of the world and the children would play with the Free Folk and ride their dragons and have the childhood she had never had, or the one their father ever had. 

The eggs were resting in the brazier; glowing jewels that one-day would become her children’s closest companions. One day his would hatch as well and he could have his proper mount, raised from birth to respond to him and only him. She stared at his profile, his eyes closed and his breathing deep and even. He had not let go of her; she did not anticipate he would. His arm slung over the children and his hand possessive on her hip, burning his palm into it beneath the furs that wrapped around them against the night chill.

Sleep had never come easy to him, he confessed to her, since he returned from the dead. She did not understand why he said that, for when they lay together on the ship, he would fall asleep peacefully, holding her close and hardly moving through the night. Perhaps it was just with her he could sleep, she wondered, and now she was more than ever convinced. Her finger came out and stroked down the straight line of his nose. The lines at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced than ever, but he still maintained an almost boyish appearance when he was relaxed. 

Dark hair cascaded over his forehead and dusted the pillow beneath his head. She looped a curl around her finger and lightly stroked it, marveling in the feel. It was never like this in the dreams or when she visited him. It couldn’t be, because it wasn’t real. She nuzzled her head into her pillow again, closing her eyes briefly and savoring the feeling of being with him and their babies. Her eyes opened and she blinked a few times, seeing his gray ones peering at her over the top of their son’s silver head. She smiled again, somewhat nervous. “Hi,” she whispered.

His lip crooked in a smile. “Hi.” It was as though they were perfect strangers now. 

She leaned across the shared pillow, across their babes, and captured his lips with hers. The soft sigh into her mouth and the way his tongue lightly prodded against hers, and his teeth nibbling at her lower lip, reminded her it wasn’t a dream. It was never like this in the dreams. She did her own plundering, her hand lifting to hold his face close when he broke away. “You’re the king,” she whispered. They had not talked yet. There would be plenty of time for that later. She just wanted to hear him answer _why._

He nodded briefly. “For now,” he whispered. 

“You got my crown.”

“And I burned the throne.” His brow wrinkled. “If you couldn’t have it then no one could.”

Oh my love, she thought, kissing him again. She closed her eyes tight. “You killed my enemies.”

“I killed Varys that night. Tyrion tried to convince Arya to murder me…that I would be a threat to them all…so I put a knife in his heart.” He continued, unmoved. “I burned people who would see you dead. I rode Drogon over King’s Landing and took out the armies that fought against you.” He continued and she saw his eyes shining. “I lost a piece of me when I lost you. It was like the dragon finally woke.”

“It was always there, Jon.” You just needed to know what it was. She could see it. She _had_ seen it. She smiled briefly. “Drogon let you ride him while I was dead.”

“It took over a month before he left…before I lots the connection.”

“A dragon only has one rider. You lost the connection when I finally was reborn.” 

“I couldn’t let myself think that,” he breathed. 

Gods she knew. How she knew. She leaned closer to him, unsure what else there was to say or do in that moment. They had so much to discuss. So much to go over. The last things she said to him…she said them from a place of pain and anguish. This Jon was not the one who had refused her touch or been unable to speak or make a decision. She stared into his eyes, the gray rings around his irises stormy clouds. There was so much there than she had ever seen before. “You are the king,” she murmured. She was so proud of him. Proud he stood up and took his birthright, took what was theirs. Their family’s birthright.

He shook his head. “It is not mine. I was merely holding it for you. I always was.”

Tears fell down her face again. “I lost the throne when I lost my life,” she whispered. She looked at their children, her hand smoothing over their tiny bodies. Her heart swelled. “I only want to spend the rest of my life with them. I just want to go somewhere, where it can just be us and where we can live peacefully.”

“Dany…I’ll step aside. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I did not come back for the throne.” All those painful nights and all those visits to him and to the children, having them see her and try to interact with her, but unable to truly be with them. She sobbed. “I just wanted my family.”

It was all she ever wanted. The throne was for Viserys. It only became hers after he died. She just wanted her family. She just wanted a home. “I didn’t know,” he whispered. He bit his lower lip and she could feel the pain radiating off of him. “I was a fool Dany…I cannot be sorry enough.” 

“It is in the past, Jon.”

“I couldn’t kill Sansa,” he almost sobbed. He reached for her and she gripped at his hand, trying to draw away his pain. “I wanted to…Gods Dany, I wanted to die. It was my fault. I should never have told her…never have betrayed you and…and I’m so sorry…please…do whatever you need to do.”

Gods, he was insinuating she kill him. She furrowed her brow and shook her head, kissing his knuckles and moving closer to him, careful not to smash the twins. “Jon…Jon I did not come back for revenge. I wanted it…oh you have no idea how I wanted it, but I could only think of the children…think of beign there for my babies and…and we can only move forward. Please. You did what you could.” 

He nodded and his gray gaze dropped to the babies, a small light appearing behind the shuttered pupils. “I did what I could for the babies…I told them about you. Every single night. Grey Worm speaks to them in Valyrian and the Dothraki nurses…I think they know more in each language than even I do now.”

They’re beautiful. They were happy and beautiful and she loved them more than she ever thought she could love another being. 

“There’s no more throne,” he continued. “No more fighting…for now. Whatever happens int eh realm is entirely the doing of everyone else.” He wated a moment. “Where do we go now? We have Dragonstone.”

_We._ He was speaking in _we_. She smiled into the pillow and lightly touched Lyella’s dark curls. “I don’t care where we go, Jon. I want to be with the babies…I want to live.” 

“We could go east.”

“Or north.”

“I just want them to have what we didn’t,” he said. She nodded. That was all she wanted for them as well. He smiled again; this time she could see the light beginning to drown out the dark in him. It would take time. She knew that he would not heal overnight, much like she hadn’t. “I love you.”

Hearing him say it…it did something inside of her. It felt like she was finally home. There was someone who truly loved her. For her. All the good and the bad. She bit her lower lip and nodded quickly. “I love you too.”

“I’ll marry you in a minute…we can go out to the godswood beyond the Wall. I don’t care. We can live without marriage, we can live apart…you can send me wherever you want and I will go,” he continued, like a madman. Rambling and continuing, how she could punish him for what he’d done. She could exile him or jail him. He didn’t care. She was alive, that was all he cared about now. 

Her index finger came out and stilled his words. She smiled, eyes dancing in merriment. “You are mad, Jon Snow,” she murmured. _Aegon Targaryen._ She arched her brow. “Positively mad.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I will marry you the moment we leave this room,” she said. She just didn’t know when that would be right now. Her lips pulled over her teeth. Broke her into thousands of pieces of light. “And I will…I will rule with you or live in the woods like a pauper…I don’t care Jon. Call me mad.”

And then he smiled, long and slow. “We are Targaryens, you know,” he whispered.

Madness and greatness, she thought, leaning farther in against him and feeling his arms wrap her and their children tighter to his chest. 

The next day they exited the Wall and moved towards the future, both of them staring straight ahead, one child with each one of them, Ghost padding at their sides and Drogon screaming above, neither one of them looking back.

**Fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Will try to finish the Christmas AU, I have a couple of chapters of extra fluff for my Ghost POV fic (even though that was supposed to be a one-shot....), I have a Halloween/vampire/werewolf/Crazy!Jonerys fic in progress and somehow started a Modern AU that was inspired by Emilia's Emmy dress of all things. Go figure-- the muse does what it does. No telling if/when any of those will be posted soon, but I'm working on it. :D


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